


Lord of the Seas

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Apologies, Bathing/Washing, Blackmail, Bottom Hank, Bottom Hank Anderson, Connor likes Hank immediately, Danger, Developing Relationship, Diary/Journal, Don't look at me after reading that tag, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Ending, Food Crimes, Foot crimes, Hand Jobs, Hank Anderson has a very small praise kink, Hank takes some convincing, Henry is an ass virgin, Hopeful Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Massage, Minor Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot Twists, Public Hand Jobs, Public Nudity, Rating Change, Rating will change, Reconciliation, Repairing Relationships, Shameless Smut, Smut, Stabbing, Swordplay, Teasing, Tender Sex, These tags are out of control, Top Connor, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), aggressive flirting, background Simon/Markus - Freeform, hesitant alliance, ish, let's be honest -- it's in there for Rile, merciless flirting, no beta we die like men, power bottom hank, taken captive, there are things with feet but only for a little bit, there are things with food as well because my garbage brain thought that added balance, very minor/implied North/Chloe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2019-11-01 21:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “Wait,” it comes out a horrified whisper.If Connor heard it, he gives no inclination. “Josh!” He barks the name, head swiveling in search of its owner. Spying him near the bow of the ship, he nods his head to his rear left, “Man the rudder.”“Stop! You can’t—,” Markus’ free fist comes down hard at the base of Henry’s spine, dropping him to his knees.Weathered leather boots swim into his vision. Connor’s voice rains down on him from above, “I think you will find, Lord Henry, that I can. You can either walk on ship or be dragged. The choice is yours.”--Connor takes Lord Henry captive. Not everything is as it seems.





	1. Day 1

Connor smiles down at the large man boarding his ship, his eyes narrowing with interest. He’s plundered dozens of towns; this is the first to send someone to parlay with him. Leaning heavily on his sword, he arches one scar-slashed brow, “What have we here?”

He waits for the man to approach him under the careful watch of his first mate and right hand, Markus, “Captain, this is Lord Henry—” the man huffs loudly, startling Markus into momentary silence. At this distance, Connor can see he has sky-colored eyes. He’s past the first blush of youth, that’s for certain. Still, something about him holds Connor’s attention.

Markus clears his throat and starts again, “The gentleman requested to parlay with you. We’ve ceased the assault.” The words _for now_ remain unspoken but the intent is clear. When Henry tries to take a step toward Connor, Markus’ sword arm catches him roughly across the chest. Though he bears an eye patch, Markus doesn’t miss much, “That’s close enough. Speak.”

Henry spares a glare for Markus while rubbing at his sternum, “The mayor’s asked me to negotiate terms.”

Connor offers the lord a devilish smile, “The man must not value you much to send you in his stead.”

Lord Henry returns the smile, “I’m fairly certain it’s more along the lines of him valuing his life more.” He squints over his shoulder back at the town, “He doesn’t trust you to honor the terms of parlay.”

Connor presses a palm to his chest in mock-outrage, “Me? I _always_ honor pirate codes.”

“Except when it doesn’t suit you,” the lord quips back, earning a strike to the gut from Markus. When he rights himself, his face indicates it was worth it.

A wicked grin crosses Connor’s lips, not quite reaching his eyes. “Does the mayor have any terms or is his offering of an unknown lord a parting gift?” Henry swallows and Connor can tell he’s wondering if he overplayed his hand.

“He says he knows why you’re here. If you part from our shores, he will send a ship to deliver it.” Connor raises his eyebrows in quiet amusement.

“Oh? I leave and wait for him to deliver the goods? Shall I paint a bright red X on the side of my ship for him to aim his canons at first? No, I think not.” Lord Henry shifts uncomfortably as Connor’s eyes rove over him without reservation.

He must truly be a lord if his clothing is anything to go by. Connor wonders if he’s sweating under the richly embroidered coat. His eyes run down one meaty thigh before ogling the stockinged calf. The cream-colored breeches fit his form well—talented hands measured that broad body with a precision that speaks of money. Large feet sit encased in shining, black shoes. Oversized silver buckles decorate the toes, casting the glare of the sun into Connor’s eyes.

Looking up, he notes the lord’s long hair is pulled back into a queue. While it is certainly peppered with grey, it appears to be his own hair. Connor’s fingers itch to pull at the leather thong holding it together. When he meets the lord’s gaze again, he can see a line of tension between his brows that hadn’t been there before.

“Does the mayor have any other offers or should I continue to raze this town to the ground?” At the question, men spring into action, readying to continue their assault. Henry makes an aborted movement to approach Connor. Connor sees Henry’s eyes flick to Markus and he gives him a pleased smile. “Quick learner,” he says it more to himself than anyone else.

Henry flushes before rapidly explaining, “He sent me with a gesture of goodwill. He will not fire upon you.” Henry pulls a sealed scroll from within his waistcoat, handing it out to Connor. Markus snatches it from his grip and tosses it. Connor catches it with practiced ease. After working open the wax, his eyes dart over the page. His smile grows with each sentence. 

When he finishes, he folds the letter and pockets it, “It says you have something else.”

Henry nods, reaching once more into the front of his coat. His hand emerges with several bank notes worth quite a bit of money, “As you can see, the mayor is most eager for you to depart.”

Connor throws his head back, rich laughter rolling off his lips, “I can see that, yes.” His eyes flick to Markus’ before giving him a decisive nod. “Luther, haul in the anchor. We depart!” Henry’s eyes shift from Connor to Markus then back again. He takes a tentative step back before Markus’ fingers wrap around his wrist in a forbidding gesture.

“Wait,” it comes out a horrified whisper.

If Connor heard it, he gives no inclination. “Josh!” He barks the name, head swiveling in search of its owner. Spying him near the bow of the ship, he nods his head to his rear left, “Man the rudder.”

“Stop! You can’t—,” Markus’ free fist comes down hard at the base of Henry’s spine, dropping him to his knees.

Weathered leather boots swim into his vision. Connor’s voice rains down on him from above, “I think you will find, Lord Henry, that I can. You can either walk on ship or be dragged. The choice is yours.” It takes the lord several seconds to get his bearings, but he does get up on one knee before rising to his considerable height.

At this proximity, Connor has to lean his head back to meet Henry’s furious gaze, but there is nothing in his stance that indicates he’s intimidated. Henry is used to people backing down when cast in his shadow, but Connor’s heated grin shows teeth that are more than willing to bite. As hungry eyes drift lazily down his body, Henry feels more like a meal than a man.

“The mayor won’t stand for this,” Henry mutters, but true fear shows on his face. He walks with as much dignity as a person can when being taken captive by pirates. Once fully on deck, Henry spins in place at a loss.

Connor’s hand at his elbow makes him jerk. Though touching Henry, he directs his attention to his first mate, “Markus, take this one to my cabin.”

Markus nods gripping Henry once more by the wrist. Not caring this time if Markus will strike, Henry braces his feet. Markus may be skilled in combat, but the lord is a mountain of a man. If he doesn’t want to move, Markus will be hard pressed to do so.

“ _What?_ ” The question comes out incredulous, and Markus scowls at the delay.

Connor’s eyes meet Henry’s before giving him an exaggerated and roguish wink, “To keep my bed warm. Welcome aboard _The Jericho_.”

Any doubt as to the pirate’s intent flees the lord at that moment. For one wild instant, he considers jumping overboard. _The mayor’s boat will come_. The thought of it sustains him as he allows Markus to take him below deck and shut him in within the Captain’s private rooms.

Tracking the hours by the changing shadows, Henry’s certainty in his rescue begins to fade. He spends the first half hour in terrified paralysis before his senses return to him. He devotes the remainder of his time to searching for a weapon or a means of escape. The port window would’ve been perfect were it not two sizes too small for Henry to squeeze his bulk through.

His heart jumps to his throat at the sound of a key scraping in the lock. Connor enters and walks straight to a cabinet hanging on the wall. What the lord had assumed were various poisons based on the labels turns out to be rum.

Connor takes a long pull before addressing Henry, “As the only ranking member on the ship, would the lord like a taste?” Henry scowls at him darkly and ignores the proffered bottle. Connor shrugs before taking a smaller sip and returning it to the shelf.

He turns, stalking toward Henry like prey. He holds out a hand, “Your coat.” After Henry hands it over, long, thin fingers reach up to unbutton his vest. He swats at them on instinct. Quicker than blinking, Connor has a wickedly sharp knife pressed to Henry’s throat. Heart hammering in his chest, Henry forgets to breathe. He nearly misses the words coming out of Connor’s mouth.

“—nothing to fear. I don’t bed the unwilling.” Henry nods to let him know he heard him and the knife vanishes back into the thigh of Connor’s boot. He flinches when Connor’s hands resume their unbuttoning. “I don’t waste expensive clothing either,” he offers by way of explanation.

“I can do that myself,” Henry grumbles, mentally refusing to hand over his small clothes.

A devious smile paints Connor’s face, “My moral code only extends so far.” Connor’s fingers trace over the meat of Henry’s chest with a reverence he’s never experienced before. It’s ludicrous and unnerving. Connor carefully folds the jacket and vest before kicking at Henry’s shoes. “Off,” his tone forbids anything other than obedience and Henry complies.

He rapidly tugs at the lacings holding together his breeches. Whatever perverted peepshow Connor’s engaging in, Henry can handle this part himself. Connor watches him with an amused smile, arm extended in a silent demand. Henry hands them over with a huff. He feels ridiculous, standing only in stockings and his undergarments.

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he’s unprepared when Connor shoves him backward. He lands in a heap on an uncomfortable navy blue couch. Connor’s fingers move to just below Henry’s knee, unlatching the hose supporter there. He must know what he’s doing because he makes a show of removing the supporter without snagging the fabric.

He tosses it toward the pile of Henry’s finery before groping much more than necessary at the meat of his calf, “My, my, what solid muscles you have Lord Henry.” He stares directly at the crotch of his undergarments as he says it before his eyes flick upward through long lashes. Henry flushes furiously and looks away, resolutely ignores the man crouching between his legs.

Connor’s fingers hook into the stocking before gliding it down. His nails drag along Henry’s skin, making the man jolt in surprise. “Get on with it then,” Henry grumbles when Connor stares for a moment at the remaining stocking. He hisses more in surprise than pain when Connor flicks at his inner thigh.

“I think you’ll find our time together much more enjoyable if you remember your place. On this ship, I am the only man issuing orders, _my lord_.” The final words roll off his lips, heavy with irony. He removes the remaining stocking with much less attentive care.

“Markus!” Henry flinches at the unexpected shout and resists the urge to shield his body when Markus walks into the room. “Have Luther lend you some spare clothes. They’re of a size.”

Connor turns his attention back to Henry, “As you have no interest in my company, you can spend it elsewhere.” An odd, deflating sensation replaces most of Henry’s embarrassment. Connor begins to pull out papers and maps before placing them on his desk. “You’ll fare better if you do as Markus says. He’s not known for his patience.”

Confused, Henry accepts worn but clean hand me downs when Markus marches back into the room. Seeing Henry’s bemused expression, he elaborates, “You’re to make yourself useful one way or another. Markus will tell you what to do. If you fail to follow orders, you fall beneath his lash. It’s pretty straight forward.”

The color drains from Henry’s face, but his feet follow Markus without question. “What about shoes?” He finally asks when Markus issues a curt order to help scrub the grime from the main level.

“Don’t need them,” is all he says before stalking away to survey the men from the top deck.

“Aye, if it ain’t Lord Hanky after all. Someone said they saw a great big lord lumbering about.” A man with a ragged scar across his nose spits wetly at Henry’s bare feet. “I remember you.” Henry stares at the man; he doesn’t share his certainty of their acquaintanceship.

“Gavin,” Markus shouts loud and clear and the man goes rigid, “You’ll get twenty tonight if the deck’s not done before dinner.” The man scowls darkly but turns back to the task at hand.

By the end of the day, Henry’s shoulders are burnt, his hands are raw, and he’s hungrier than he’s ever been in his life.

Henry slops a great deal of murky water onto the deck when Markus materializes next to him, “Captain wants to see you.” With more relief than he thought possible, Henry follows Markus out of the sun into the cooler cabin. His feet ache in a way he didn’t know was possible. He wants to sit, even if the couch is uncomfortable.

Henry hadn’t seen Connor emerge from the cabin, but he looks tousled as if he’s been doing rigorous work. His hair is a mess and his shirt hangs open loosely. His pale, slender neck disappears into the folds. A dark freckle on his chest peeks out at Henry through the lacings like a siren batting her lashes, singing him a song. He can’t stop staring at it.

He tears his eyes away when he hears Connor chuckle, “By all means, look as much as you’d like.” Color blooms to life on Henry’s cheeks and he remains silent. Connor waves at Markus and the man retreats. Alone, Henry’s heart picks up speed when Connor advances.

“Let’s assess the damage,” he says it as he takes Henry’s palm into his own, handling it with care. It’s dizzying how quickly Connor turns his affections off and on again. This morning he was certain he’d end up beneath him; this afternoon, he hadn’t seen him once.

 _Why do you care?_ The question prods at the back of his mind and he resolutely ignores it. Instead, he watches Connor run his fingers over his hands before his eyes dart up to his face and shoulders. He sighs heavily, a sound falling somewhere between regret and amusement.

“So soft,” he murmurs to himself and Henry’s thunderous blush consumes his entire face. He’d expected Connor’s own hands to be rough from living a life at sea, but he sees several pairs of gloves in a curio cabinet against the wall. Some are scarred with use; others are finer than the ones Henry owns back home.

“Sit,” Connor gestures to the lumpy couch and Henry does his best not to look immensely happy about it. His feet sing in relief even if his sun-pinked skin protests against the rough material covering the cushions. Connor pulls a key from his pocket before rummaging in a trunk. He grabs two jars then closes and locks the lid. One contains a substance that looks like mud; the other is clear and gelatinous.

He settles next to Henry on the couch, tucking one leg beneath him and resting the jars in the crook of his knee. He opens the clear one first. “For the burns,” he explains as he dips his fingers into the clear jelly, scooping out a moderate amount. Henry watches him in silence, not sure what this goop is supposed to do for him.

When Connor drops a large dollop onto the shoulder closest to him, Henry sucks in a shuddering breath, “Cold.” Irritation melts into relief as Connor spreads a thick layer over the angriest patches of red.

“Better?” he asks in a soothing tone. It feels like a trap, but Henry’s too tired and sore to care. If Connor wants to touch him, so be it. So long as he keeps applying the salve. Henry closes his eyes and tilts his head against the back of the couch. When Connor leans in to reach his other shoulder, he can feel the heat of his face loom nearer to his. He tries not to think too hard about why it makes his heart pound in his chest.

Connor rises and makes a show of washing his hands in a basin before returning with a wet rag and opening the other jar, “Let me see your hands.” Henry holds them out, turning partially when Connor tugs them into his lap. The brown jar smells earthy and intense, bordering on vinegar.

“What is that?” Henry eyes the jar with dubious suspicion but leaves his hands where they are. His shoulders feel infinitely better and he holds out hope for the brown sludge.

“Willow bark,” is all Connor says before spreading a thin layer over the raw skin. The burned, chapped back of his hand protests and he hisses until a curious numbing sensation replaces the sting. He stares at it, confused by the abrupt and complete lack of pain. “It won’t last,” Connor explains, “but it will help.” 

He finishes working on the other hand and presses the tips of his fingers into the swell of Henry’s ample chest, “Lie down.”

Henry balks, resisting the pressure. Before he can make more than a few sounds of protest, Connor’s fingers dig in, “It wasn’t a request.” Connor’s goodwill towards Henry can’t fully conceal his sharp edges. For a moment, Henry had almost forgotten he’s not a guest aboard the ship. Wide-eyed, he obeys as nervous tension creeps into his veins.

It takes him longer than he cares to admit to get comfortable. He finally settles on resting his shoulder blades against the arm of the couch, bending his knees to avoid prodding Connor. He watches Connor in silence as he shifts to kneel at the opposite end of the couch.

An undignified noise escapes him when Connor pulls one aching foot into his lap, “Why are you doing this?”

Connor appears to consider the question while probing into the brown jar once more. He shrugs as he distributes the liniment evenly between his hands, “I saw how you walked down the stairs. You’re obviously in pain.”

“And that matters to you?” Henry worries he’s overstepped when Connor goes still.

After an awkward silence, Connor answers, “I’d prefer it if you were comfortable.” He underscores his point by bracing his slender fingers on the bridge of Henry’s left foot before running a broad stripe of the salve up the taut arch with his thumb.

“Then why have me out there all day lon—,” The question dies in his mouth when Connor’s thumbs start to move, pressing slow, deep circles into the tender instep. Henry lets out an involuntary moan as instant relief courses through him.

“I don’t handle rejection well,” Connor says in an amused voice, shifting his grip to knead into the ball of Henry’s foot. Henry colors hotly at this explanation, remembering Connor’s hands on him this morning—on him _now_. He looks resolutely at the ceiling and misses Connor’s quiet, interested gaze. He watches Henry from beneath his lashes like a predator who just realized his quarry might not be out of reach after all.

Henry melts into the couch when Connor tugs at each toe individually, working from the outside in. Like a shifting current, pain leaves him in gentle waves. At a particularly loud groan, Connor can’t contain his mirth, “Enjoying yourself?” Henry opts to throw an arm over his eyes rather than answer or look at the pirate groping his foot.

Connor pulls Henry’s other foot into his lap and tilts his head, “Back to your question.” Henry peeks out from under his arm, wondering if it’s a clever ruse to further embarrass him. Connor’s smile is calculated and unnerving, “I need you to have a clear head about you. Pain has a way of muddling good common sense.” Interest piqued, Henry shifts to a more upright position. Connor doesn’t release his hold on him.

“What do you mean?” he asks warily. He has no reason to trust the man. He’s a pirate, a notorious one, and he’s clearly interested in bedding him. Still, he could’ve killed him. Instead, Connor’s got him horizontal on his couch with his foot locked between his hands.

Connor places his palms on either side of the arch, gently alternating between pulling and pushing. Eventually, he wipes at the bottoms of Henry’s feet to remove the muddy remains of the willow bark and Henry twitches against the ticklish sensation. After a few finishing strokes, he shifts Henry’s feet to the side, encouraging him to sit upright. “Follow me. It’s best if you read it for yourself.”

Walking with much greater ease than he had when he first entered Connor’s rooms, he sees the scroll he handed over earlier that day on top of several maps. At a glance from Connor, he reads the note the mayor bid him to deliver. By the third line, a furious rage curls in his gut.

“There are more,” Connor says, rinsing his hands in the basin before opening a drawer and pressing several missives into Henry’s shaking grip.

Under the weight of undeniable proof, Henry sinks into the chair opposite of Connor’s desk. “How long?” he asks in a whisper.

“That’s really not the question you should be asking.” Connor’s tone is gentle, but his expression is calculated.

“It’s _my_ life!” Henry pounds his fist on the desk and Connor arches an eyebrow, the twisted scar lending a dangerous element to his otherwise beautiful face.

“I suppose. That part comes rather toward the end of the entire operation, though.” Connor retrieves the rum and Henry accepts when he offers it to him this time. “You know of _The Jericho_ and her crew. You know of me.” They’re not questions, but Henry nods all the same.

“What you don’t know is what we do with the things we take.” Connor points to several cities on a map that Henry recognizes. Neighboring cities that he’d hit in previous months. Henry hadn’t been surprised when his city fell victim as well.

“Those cities—they’re not on good terms with yours.” Henry’s read the letters, he already knows what Connor’s about to say. Even so, he cringes down and away from the truth of it, “Your mayor was tired of playing nice. Zlatko never had a great reputation to begin with but outright marauding is a bit above his paygrade.”

Henry’s anger simmers beneath his skin, a rage kept in check only by the knowledge that Connor is armed and he is not, “So you did his dirty work for him.”

Connor smiles and it’s a threat, “If I thought you knew what you were talking about, you’d regret those words immensely.” Henry’s wrath cools to moderate anger. Connor rolls his shoulders before continuing, “The people haven’t fared well under Zlatko’s leadership. Those other towns suffered from insufficient governors, mayors, what have you. It just so happened, some of those towns were Zlatko’s enemies.”

Markus enters the room, carrying a plate piled with cheeses, roasted meat, and cracked bread releasing yeasty steam. Recognizing the loaf from a local baker, Henry’s stomach rumbles loudly. He tries not to let his face show his disappointment that there’s only one plate. Connor rises as Markus takes his leave. He sits on his desk and crosses his knees, “Hungry?”

Despite the disturbing conversation, Henry can’t deny his empty stomach. He nods and watches as Connor’s teeth sink into a baguette. Delicate fingers pluck up a sliver of meat, swirling it in a savory sauce. Elbow on knee, Connor leans and extends his hand toward Henry, palm up, as if offering a gift.

“Then eat,” is all the man says as the sauce drips to the floor in the space between them. He’s only known Connor personally for a day, but he’s fairly certain he knows what he wants him to do. Too hungry to protest, Henry leans forward and pulls the morsel from between Connor’s fingers with his teeth.

Smiling broadly, Connor nudges the plate closer and hands Henry a moist towel for his hands, “Help yourself. I can’t eat all of this.” With as much poise as his situation allows, Henry eats with his fingers while Connor continues to explain.

“He had to use every seedy connection he knows to reach me but eventually I got word that he wanted to strike a deal. I take out his enemies in exchange for coin. Crude but standard. With those men gone, Zlatko could exert more influence, more authority, and put puppets in their place. The only problem was one Lord Henry Anderson.”

Mouth full of cheese, Henry can’t respond. Connor watches him and waits while he chews. Feeling uncomfortable under his attentive gaze, Henry swallows, “You didn’t appear to know me when we first met.”

Connor rocks his head back in forth in a contemplative gesture, “I knew of you from Zlatko’s letters. I did some research of my own as well. I knew you were an honorable lord. One of the few remaining in the town. I have _plans_ , you see. I need Zlatko’s finances to oust the corrupt men running their towns into the ground. He doesn’t know that, of course, but you were going to be a problem. Zlatko knew you wouldn’t let him install his own men in the vacant seats of power; he wanted you dead. I told him it would spell disaster if anyone found out he had a hand in your death. I suggested the abduction ruse.”

Connor leans forward again, gripping Henry lightly by the chin, “The fact that you’re handsome is an unexpected reward.” Trapped under Connor’s shameless stare, a pink tinge colors Henry’s cheeks much to the pirate’s delight.

Connor releases his hold and continues, “I plan to return you more or less intact, but dismantling corrupt governments does take rather a lot of time.”

“Not to appear ungrateful,” Henry begins, realizing he owes this pirate his life, “but how exactly am I to return? No one will trust me after spending that much time with a—with you.”

Connor waves his hand at him dismissively, “Details. You could escape, or we could stage a fight between us.” Henry starts to protest, but Connor interrupts him with a devilish wink, “Don’t worry; I’d let you win.”

Henry scowls at him, “I’ve had training in sword fighting. I am a _lord_ , after all.”

Connor smirks, wickedness kindling to life in his warm, brown eyes, “You ever notice how your type always seems to die in pirate fights?” Henry jolts and some of the color leaves his face. Connor hops lightly from the desk. He circles around the chair, tracing his hand along Henry’s shoulders as he goes. “You may know your way around a sword,” his eyes cast downward in a meaningful glance, “but you don’t stand a chance against me.”

Henry’s inclined to agree with him, but he’s not fool enough to say as much out loud. Connor returns to the plate and pops a bit of meat between his lips. Stacking the letters together, he grins at Henry over his shoulder, “I’ll teach you how to cheat.” 

Henry protests weakly, but he knows the decision is made. Sword fighting would be more enjoyable than scrubbing the deck with the likes of Gavin, that much was certain.

Returning to the more pressing subject, Henry asks, “So how do you intend to get rid of Zlatko? He’s not exactly going to let you take his money and do with it what you like.”

“He has so far,” Connor says, voice brimming with confidence. “But, yes, I’ve given the matter much thought. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Your face is much better looking when it’s not frowning.”

Recognizing the dismissal, Henry changes tactics, “You don’t live like a man sitting on piles of gold. You’ve ransacked enough towns to buy your own island if you wanted.”  

Connor taps at his temple with one long forefinger, “Smart man. I can’t very well put honorable men in charge if they have no funds to rebuild the town.”

Henry startles at this response, “You aren’t keeping any of it?”

Connor gives Henry a look that tells him he’s being a bit simple-minded, “Don’t be absurd. I take a cut. Enough to keep my crew comfortable. The majority of it is put back into the town over time.

Henry eyes him for a minute before taking a calculated risk, “Are you the reason Lord Simon had the resources to usurp Governor Todd Williams over in the town of Windsor?”

Connor gives him a shrewd smile, “So many questions! However, it’s growing late and I’d rather not waste the candles. I’m operating on a budget as you well know.” Henry correctly interprets the non-answer as a _yes_ to his question. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, uncertain of where he’s meant to go.

Connor either doesn’t notice or ignores his discomfort. He goes about the room, putting away documents and maps before securing the cabinets. He bars the door, Henry still inside.

Feeling uncomfortably hot, Henry clears his throat. Too tired to play games, he asks the blunt question, “Where am I to sleep?” Even though it is lumpy and uncomfortable, he desperately hopes for the couch.

“There are three sleeping quarters on this ship. One is with the men, one is with Markus, and the last is with me. Which would you prefer?” Connor presents the choices as if they are balanced.

Knowing which route Henry will take, Connor opens the door to his private room, “After you, my lord.” A large bed dominates most of the room. Henry supposes it doesn’t matter since Connor must not do much more than sleep in here. A ruddy hue stains his face when his thoughts stray too closely to what else Connor may get up to in the privacy of his own rooms.

Henry sits uneasily on the edge of the bed. The sting is starting to return to his hands and shoulders. As if on cue, Connor lifts one of Henry’s large hands to inspect it closely. Swearing under his breath, he briefly leaves the room. Henry can hear the clinking of glass and a slosh of pouring liquid.

“Drink this. Fast. The taste is terrible.” Henry does so without question and Connor smiles at his obedience. True to his word, the taste is foul.

“What—,” he breaks off in a coughing fit. “What was that?”

“Willow bark again. Concentrated. I prefer the ointment, but the drink’s effects last longer. It’ll help keep you comfortable through the night.” Connor appears chagrinned by Henry’s condition, but he offers no verbal apology. “Lie down. We have a busy day tomorrow.” Connor extinguishes the candle and the bed dips next to Henry. He relaxes after several minutes when Connor’s breathing slows and it becomes clear that he’s asleep.

The morning dawns bright and harsh as sunlight floods through the small window. The beam of light seems intent on invading Henry’s eyelids and he turns his head against it. His nose connects with soft hair and he startles, remembering where he is.

Lifting his head slightly, he realizes that Connor is sprawled across him like a blanket. Mortification rapidly replaces sleep-addled confusion when he feels the press of an erection against his hip. He bites back a groan when Connor’s thigh, draped across his waist, shifts against his own morning arousal.

Glancing down once more, Henry notices that Connor’s shirt sloped off one shoulder at some point in the night, exposing a pale slice of skin dotted at random with freckles and one or two moles.

 _I wonder if they’re everywhere?_ The thought flees his mind when Connor begins to stir.

“Well, good morning,” he purrs into Henry’s ear, voice still heavy with sleep. Henry makes a few choking sounds when a slender hand gropes briefly at his chest. Chuckling, Connor grants him a reprieve and moves to roll out of bed. Still, as he does so, his hips brush with unnecessary enthusiasm against Henry’s side. It’s possible it’s an accident, but Connor’s amused smile indicates otherwise.

“I imagine you’re wondering how you’ll pass your time here?” Connor asks the question while straightening his clothes and donning his boots, not bothering to change. Henry had wondered, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“You’re not the man I expected,” Connor speaks as if discussing a disappointing cut of beef with a butcher. “You used to be a powerhouse at court. You’re a shadow of what you once were.”

Henry sits up, bristling at the criticism, “What would you know of the intrigues at court? I played the game—I tried to make life better for the people so many lords trample on in their fervor to elevate their own status; I lost.”

Connor pulls a throwing knife from his boot, twirling it around his finger before hurling it at the wall. Henry lapses into silence, remembering abruptly whose company he’s in. “I’m aware you’ve had some… _struggles_.” He says the word with distaste while wrenching the knife free from the wall. Despite his loss in power, Henry is still a lord. Still comfortable. Shame burns at Henry’s edges under the realization.

Taking aim once more, Connor address Henry without looking at him, “I was under the impression you wanted Zlatko gone as much as I do. I hadn’t expected you to give up.” He punctuates the words with another dull _thunk_ as metal embeds into wood.

“I didn’t _give up_ ,” Henry stands in indignation. “I had no choice. He’d taken _everything_.” At a wry expression from Connor, Henry amends, “He took everything that mattered.”

Connor nods in understanding as he yanks the blade free once more, “You mean the boy.”

Fire flares through Henry’s veins so sharply, he wonders how he’s not burned, “Don’t you dare. You don’t speak of him.”  

Connor shrugs, “I’ll discuss what I like with my _captives_.” Unable and unwilling to remain docile, Henry makes three threatening steps toward Connor. When he’s less than a foot away, the pirate moves quicker than Henry thought possible. Little more than a blur, Connor delivers several harsh blows that send Henry hurtling to the ground. Pinned under Connor’s slight weight straddling him and the gentle press of the knife to his jugular, Henry goes still.

Connor’s free hand moves to brush a stray piece of hair from Henry’s forehead, satisfaction clear on his face, “There he is. There’s the man I was looking for.”

Throat constricting, Henry croaks, “What do you want?”

Connor smirks down at him, his hips shifting a fraction, “I should think that is obvious. To help you. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. I abhor men like Zlatko. I don’t intend to behead one viper to see it replaced with another. I’ll need someone to take his place when he’s gone.”

Henry glares up at the man in suspicion, “To be your marionette, you mean.”

Connor gives him a dangerous laugh but shakes his head, “This world needs more good men in charge. Legal channels are too slow; too easily corrupted. My methods are faster and far more effective. Just look at Lord Simon.”

Lord Simon is a tempting fruit to dangle. Henry knows the man, respects him. If what Connor says is true, Simon owes his status to this pirate. In the few months that Simon’s been in charge, his people have prospered. Still, doubts linger. “Why should I help you?”

Connor’s answer is immediate, “Because I have something you desperately want. Information.” He dips low, his cheek pressed against Henry’s as if to share a secret. Unable to breathe, Henry waits. Connor’s lips brush against the shell of his ear when he speaks, “The boy still lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	2. Days 15 - 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry wonders about the decency of the average pirate but remains mum on the subject. He’d fumed horribly when Connor refused to reunite them straight away, “The boy is in good hands; you have my word on that. We can’t risk the two of you being seen together until I deal with Zlatko.” 
> 
> When Connor declined to even offer a rough estimate of the timeline, Henry momentarily forgot he’s a captive on a pirate ship with no weapons of his own. Catching Connor by surprise, Henry had hoisted him into the air by his shirt before pressing him into a wall. The pirate had the gall to flirt rather than appear terrified, “Really, Henry. If you want to put your hands on me, you need only ask.” He’d dropped him straightaway, flushing at his tinkling laugh. 
> 
> __
> 
> Lord Henry isn't as reluctant a captive as he pretends.

When Henry blinks himself awake after his first fortnight on ship, he sees Connor tugging on his boots before struggling to pull them up over his knee. As is his wont, he asks for Henry’s opinion as if he has any choice, “So, breakfast then swords?” Many of their mornings start this way, with Connor announcing their itinerary as if he hadn’t spent most of the night wrapped around Henry like a jealous octopus.

Still, other than doing his best to cocoon Henry’s much larger body with his own, Connor keeps his hands mostly to himself at night. He’s not certain if he’ll ever get used to waking up with a pirate on his chest, but it’s better than sleeping with the crew. He doubts Connor had been serious when he made the offhand comment, but Henry doesn’t want to find out.

He dresses with greater speed than usual. It’s the first time Connor’s offered to follow through on his suggestion to practice with swords. He wonders if he means it to be a distraction for Henry. His first few days as a captive were spent picking Connor’s brain and demanding to see proof of his claim that Cole is alive.

 _How do you know he’s alive? Are you_ sure _it’s him?_

Connor had scoffed at him. Of course, he was sure. He was the smuggest, most confident bastard Henry had met to date. Still, he did provide some undeniable evidence. Several scrolls referencing a young boy traveling with a widow; the descriptions of their clothing and carriage were unmistakable.

Whoever had tracked the pair was quite thorough. They knew of the marriage contract between Henry and the lady; they also knew she withdrew after Zlatko ravaged his finances. With little more than a title and a home, it wasn’t enough stability for her young son. She’s been most aggrieved. She and the Lord got along well enough, but her young son, Cole, was beside himself. He didn’t understand politics and he’d formed a fast bond to Henry.

Where things became more confusing was somewhere along the roads from Henry’s city to the docks for them to return to the Lady’s home. Zlatko had claimed bandits laid waste to her carriage, leaving nothing but smoldering wheels and burnt horsemeat. It hadn’t sat well with Henry. It seemed too neat and tidy; a final stab in the gut to keep Henry in his place.

However, Zlatko had been able to produce scraps of charred fabric that very clearly belonged to the boy. They were unique and made especially for him. If Zlatko had it, the boy had to be gone. Connor’s missives offered evidence to the contrary.

“Young Cole is alive—or was as of last week. Zlatko, deranged as he is, tried to stoop to pedicide; his so-called bandits were less than enthused,” Henry had been shocked to learn that Lord Simon himself had had a hand in smuggling the boy out of danger. His mother hadn’t been so lucky.

“It was definitely Zlatko’s men,” had been Connor’s answer when Henry had pressed him for more details on her passing, “Well-paid men on Zlatko’s payroll. They’ve performed these kinds of hits before. From what my messengers can gather, they balked when they realized there was a child in the carriage. They tried to extract the pair of them. The lady was too…she was beyond saving. The boy, however, survived.”

Connor assured him Cole only had minor injuries as his mother had curled around him. Eventually, Connor refuses to provide any more answers, “Henry, it’s a grizzly topic I don’t wish to further discuss. Suffice it to say my sources are good. The boy couldn’t stay in the city when Zlatko expected him to be dead. Lord Simon sent word to me and asked if I could assist.”

Unused to a pirate with morals, Connor had scoffed when Henry indicated he had a heart, “Further indebting a noble to my cause was reason enough.” After a moment, Connor concedes, “He was a scared little boy without a mother. Anyone decent would try to help if it was in their power.”

Henry wonders about the decency of the average pirate but remains mum on the subject. He’d fumed horribly when Connor refused to reunite them straight away, “The boy is in good hands; you have my word on that. We can’t risk the two of you being seen together until I deal with Zlatko.”

When Connor declined to even offer a rough estimate of the timeline, Henry momentarily forgot he’s a captive on a pirate ship with no weapons of his own. Catching Connor by surprise, Henry had hoisted him into the air by his shirt before pressing him into a wall. The pirate had the gall to flirt rather than appear terrified, “Really, Henry. If you want to put your hands on me, you need only ask.” He’d dropped him straightaway, flushing at his tinkling laugh.

Henry stopped bringing up the subject after a few days even if Cole was a constant topic on his mind. The prospect of practicing at swords is a welcome distraction after two weeks of stewing on the same unmovable subject.  

It takes all of five minutes for Henry to realize he’s badly outmatched. Connor doesn’t have to resort to cheating to pin him repeatedly. The fourth time he finds himself back to mast, chest to chest with Connor, only a blade between them, he huffs angrily, “Are you going to teach me something or shunt me around the main deck all morning?”

Connor’s foot strikes out at his knee, sending Henry to the ground in a graceless heap. Angry words converge to life on his tongue when Connor sticks out a hand, “Get your opponent angry. They’re prone to error.”

“Then you cheat?” Henry grumbles in irritation as Connor helps haul him up from the deck. He rubs ruefully at his backside. He’s going to have more bruises by the end of the day than he’s had in his entire life.

“Precisely,” Connor smiles smugly. “You guard well; I haven’t been able to break it.” Henry blinks in surprise at the unexpected praise. The good feeling doesn’t last long, “But your attack is weak. You allow me to run you around in circles. You have to fight back at some point or you’ll only exhaust yourself.”

“Captain?” Markus calls down from the crow’s nest. When Connor shouts back a reply, Markus continues, “Shipment incoming. White sails raised—red stripes on the mast. It’s him.” Connor nods to him before whistling loudly at the crew working below.

“All hands to me. Get the chain ready.” Feeling abruptly more like wallpaper than a living person, Henry shrinks into the background. He watches Connor work, shifting into his element without so much as a backward glance. Men form a line as an elegant ship approaches, pulling up alongside _The Jericho_.

Planks slap across the taffrail, forming a precarious looking bridge. Burly looking men begin transferring crate after crate under Connor’s watchful gaze. Henry sees Markus shiver with barely concealed anticipation.

“Oh, go already,” Connor says, voice full of mirth. Markus nods before grabbing a rope and backing up, “Can you _not_ —,” he sighs when Markus breaks into a full-on sprint, leaping from the ship and swinging in a wide arc on the rope. Once he’s cleared the deck, he releases and rolls to a stand at the feet of a familiar looking man.

Henry squints at the thin, blonde man. Even from this distance, he can tell he has blue eyes. “That’s Lord Simon,” he says it quietly more to himself than anyone in particular. Connor hears him all the same.

“Indeed, he is.” A question dies in his throat when the Lord’s hand snakes around the back of Markus’ neck, pulling him into a kiss. Connor smirks as Henry continues to gawp at the display.

“It’s rude to stare at people, you know,” Connor nudges him in the ribs. 

“I,” he tears his eyes away to look at Connor, who’s regarding him curiously, “I know his wife. She’s…scary.” He wouldn’t want to cross her if he was Simon but to each his own. 

Connor snorts, “The lady from the northern isles? You mustn’t know her well.”

Henry shakes his head, “I only know of her through Lord Simon. She always seemed angry.”

“You’d be angry as well if your parents forced you to wed a foreigner for the sake of politics. She’s happier now that he sent for her lover.”

Henry blinks at him several times, “How do you know all this?”

Connor fixes him with a smile that makes his breath hitch, “There’s a reason Lord Simon is hand delivering goods to us. He owes me _several_ favors. At any rate, it was an easy job. Pick up a blonde, treat her well, deliver her intact. She was quiet and pleasant.”

“You abducted her.” He says it as a statement and Connor’s gaze grows cold.

“I did nothing of the sort. We staged the whole thing. She was fully aware of the plan. She isn’t of noble birth. No one put up much of a fuss about her disappearing. A few weeks later, we delivered her and everyone’s been much happier for it since.” Connor’s quiet for a moment before adding, “I’d be careful about making such accusations if I were you.”

Connor returns his attention to the transference of cargo and Henry feels distinctly dismissed. He turns to leave the deck. His uselessness makes him itch to do something. “I didn’t tell you to go,” Connor’s voice cracks over him like a whip. How Connor knows he moved with his back to him is beyond him.

He turns, his expression unreadable, “Let’s return to swords. They’ll be at this for a while.” Connor presses him with far more brutality than he had earlier in the day. He pauses only to explain mistakes or clarify a trick tactic he employs. By the time the sun is directly overhead, Henry’s arms ache and he’s sweat through his borrowed clothes. Feeling eyes on him, he sees Markus regarding him with his one-eyed gaze.

Connor finally relents, squinting at the dwindling boxes on the other ship, “Head below deck. There’s a wash basin if you need to use it. I have business to attend to with the lord.” Henry isn’t a stupid man. He knows he upset Connor—likely insulted him. It’s difficult to square the man he’s coming to know with the man the press portrays him as.

He catches a glimpse of Markus approaching Connor before the two begin exchanging what appear to be angry words. When Connor comes stomping into the room several hours later, his foul mood fills the cabin. He tosses a box on his desk, remaining silent. Finding himself in the now familiar position of being sore and hungry, Henry does his best not to agitate the angry pirate.

“I wanted to apologize for before. I made assumptions. I…” he fades into silence, realizing too late that this is clearly not the time. Connor’s scowl lands on him and he pushes a hand roughly through his wind-blown hair.

After a moment, his irritation seems to deflate. He leans against his desk, sagging against his braced arms with a sigh, “Don’t worry about it.”

Henry approaches him cautiously, reaching out a hand to touch his elbow. Connor’s eyes cast over to look at him and Henry realizes his irritation is not with his captive.

Connor exhales heavily and looks away, “It’s been brought to my attention that I may have overreacted earlier.” Henry assumes this is Markus’ doing. He also suspects it’s the closest thing to an apology Connor can manage. “You don’t know me other than what the papers tell you. I’m not that man. I know it’s easy to paint every pirate with the same brush. I’m not saying I haven’t committed crimes, but I don’t target innocent people.”

Henry’s stomach takes the opportunity to grumble loudly and Connor’s mood lifts at the sound. He smiles slightly before gesturing to the box he came in with, “Check it.” Henry opens the lid to find various packages and jars of food. Pulling them out one at a time, he recognizes several labels. Spread out across Connor’s desk, Henry feels like he’s attending the world’s most bizarre indoor picnic at sea.

“I thought you might like some comforts from home. Lord Simon was willing to part with some of his personal stores.” A slight flush tries to rise on Henry’s cheeks at the gesture.

He murmurs his thanks before tossing a jar to Connor, “Try that one. It’s a spread—a bit like butter. It goes well with biscuits.”

Connor laughs deeply, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind the next time I make biscuits at sea.”

Henry huffs in mock-irritation, “Fine, then give it back.”

Eyes gleaming gleefully, Connor quips, “Why? Do you want to butter my biscuit?”

Henry looks him square in the eye as he deadpans, “I deeply regret starting this conversation.” He tries to keep a straight face, but a small smile betrays him. 

Connor rambles on about the shipment while Henry tries to eat without appearing like he’s about to inhale the contents of the jars, glass and all.

“I’ll have to have Markus include more of those for our next food run. It will be quite a while before then, though,” he gestures at the jar of yams Henry just demolished.

He blushes, wondering if he avoided getting it in his beard. He loves yams, but they have a way of staining the corners of his mouth orange. He rubs at them self-consciously while Connor watches in mild amusement.

When the implication of the words settles in his mind he asks, “Do you really think I’ll be here that long?” In performing his work duties, he’s ordered some ships away from port for months at a time. He knows it’s possible, but he doesn’t much relish the idea of being away from civilized plumbing for months. He’d also hoped to see Cole sooner than that.

“Oh, more than likely,” Connor watches him over the tips of his fingers with hungry eyes, good humor restored by the food. If his expression is anything to go by, Connor is still trying to get _Lord Anderson_ on the menu. “It takes time to eradicate corrupt nobility. A couple of months at least.”

Henry grimaces, thinking about what will likely become of his estate.

Connor’s face softens at the expression, “I’ll try to keep you comfortable during your stay.”

Henry shakes his head, “It’s not that. It’s just…” He fades off, feeling a little ridiculous. When Connor presses the issue he continues, “I keep thinking about Mayor Zlatko touching my things and it’s not a pleasant thought.”

Connor’s expression grows thoughtful, but he does little more than make a sympathetic sound. They continue eating in companionable silence, their earlier exertions demanding they replenish their energy. When Connor calls for one of his pirates to clear away the mess, a suspicion stirs in Henry’s mind, “You behave a good deal like a lord.”

Connor gives him an easy laugh, “Your lot tends to rub off on a person after a while. I’ve dealt with more backstabbing nobility in my line of work to pick up on the finer parts of their lifestyle.”

Markus knocks and enters before Henry can pry any further, “Lord Simon is ready to depart, Captain. He says to expect the next shipment in a month’s time.” Henry can hear the disappointment in Markus’ tone.

“Be back in three days. We can’t afford to linger here for much longer.” Markus stares at him with one blue eye. “Go, before I change my mind.” Markus gives him a curt nod, but a gleam of joy lurks in his gaze. Turning on a heeled boot, Markus takes longer strides than usual.

When the sound of his footsteps fade, Henry murmurs, “That was nice of you.”

Connor shrugs, “He’ll pine the entire month if I don’t give them some time alone. Believe me; a pining Markus is not good for anyone.” Henry tries and fails to imagine Markus as anything other than cold, brutal stoicism.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in relative silence. Connor pours over logbooks and letters while Henry reads a novel Connor tossed at him to keep him occupied. Though he tries to hide his discomfort, Connor notices his ginger use of his arms and the stiff way he positions himself on the couch. “You won’t do yourself any favors by pretending you’re not in pain.” His rises to press his fingers into the swell of Henry’s bicep to underscore his point.

“Come, the hour is getting late.” Although the sky is growing dark, Henry knows it’s much too early to retire to bed. Connor’s eyes rove over him and a nervous tension simmers in his stomach. Although Connor has claimed he won’t force the issue, that he’s different than the other rogues that terrorize the seas, Henry can’t help but wonder how much he can trust in the honor of a pirate.

Weeks’ old fears flare to life when Connor orders him to remove his shirt as he rummages through his desk. Although they’d been sharing the same bed, they were always more or less dressed for it. When he doesn’t snap into immediate compliance, Connor fixes him with a steely smile, “Do you require assistance?” Henry spies a familiar salve jar in his hands, and he relaxes a fraction before tugging the borrowed shirt over his head.

Connor doesn’t try to conceal his stare as his gaze wanders across the pale expanse of Henry’s chest. He crosses the room to drag his fingers through the hair curling there before pushing against him, “Lie down, my lord.” Knowing resistance won’t earn him a reprieve, Henry submits to Connor’s intentions.

He reclines onto the bed, propped up slightly on his elbows. Connor’s gaze burns into his for several tense seconds before he murmurs, “On your stomach.” When Henry hesitates, Connor offers him what he must imagine is an encouraging smile. There’s too much teeth to it for it to be reassuring.

“You’ll feel better for it, I promise.” With apprehension clear on his face, Henry rolls over and tries to ignore his pounding heart. He jolts in surprise and tries to buck against the pressure of Connor straddling him. He freezes when the pressure of a warm hand rests on the middle of his back.

Connor makes a soft shushing sound as he opens the jar and Henry remains immobile beneath him. He relaxes when Connor’s salve-covered fingers begin working into the stiff muscles of his back and shoulders. Henry buries his face into the salt-smelling bedding and groans when Connor finds a particularly tender spot.

Connor glides his fingertips lightly across the broad expanse of Henry’s back, fingers tracing along a darkening bruise, “This is from the mast." He says it quietly with a hint of regret. Henry shivers at the gentle touch and tone.

The rest of the month passes in a similar fashion. During the day, Connor puts Henry through the paces. They expand his skills with the sword to include several maneuvers most lords would consider underhanded. Henry eyes Connor’s boots, pointing out he’s packing hidden weapons. More than once, Connor has to remind him that he who fights fair most often winds up dead.

When Connor shifts his focus to work, he shoos Henry below deck. His men vanish in boats for days on missions whose details Henry isn’t privy to. He does his best not to sulk, but Connor’s distance during the day is at distinct odds with his attentions at night. He has to remind himself numerous times he doesn’t particularly want _all_ of the attention the pirate bestows upon him. An opinionated voice at the back of his mind calls him a liar.

Most evenings, Henry finds himself beneath Connor’s greedy hands as the man works out small pains of his own doing. Connor grows bolder in his explorations of Henry’s body with each passing night. By the month’s end, Henry’s given up on making the man stop groping at him under the guise of patching him up. Pawing at his shoulders after weeks of training, Connor murmurs, “Swordplay agrees with you.” Henry flushes furiously and Connor chuckles at the sight, “Still so shy.”

Some evenings, however, they just talk. Connor asks him questions about the books he prefers to read, what it was like being a lord under the likes of Zlatko, and what he’d change about how things are run in his town. Henry can’t shake the feeling that his answers matter more than Connor lets on. He tries to ask questions of his own, but Connor’s ability to provide responses devoid of any actual information leaves him flummoxed more often than not.

As their first month together fades well into a second, Connor’s bemoans the dwindling supply of willow bark and Henry is less prone to blushing at Connor’s open staring. He’s teasing out a knot in Henry’s neck when there’s a knock at the cabin door. With a mental sigh, Henry prepares for his dismissal. Anytime Markus approaches Connor about work, Henry becomes little more than awkward furniture in their way.

It reminds him far too sharply of his position as a moderately amusing distraction to a licentious pirate. It hurts and he’s long since stopped pretending he doesn’t know why.

The polite but firm request to go elsewhere doesn’t come. Continuing to knead into Henry’s upper back, Connor beckons for Markus to enter. When Henry tries to shift from beneath him, Connor’s hands press down in a silent command to stay. Uncomfortably aware that Markus is watching his Captain massage a captor, Henry does his best to suppress a full body blush.

If the scene unfolding before Markus at all surprises him, he doesn’t show it, “You were right, Captain.”

“Of course I was,” Connor says with a jaunty flick of his wrist, “About what?” Henry rolls his eyes and Connor prods at an aching muscle as he mutters, “I saw that.”

Markus ignores both of them in favor of continuing with his report, “There is questionable activity. I have a few suspects, but the individual wasn’t foolish enough to sign his name.” Henry’s head swims as he tries to suss out what they’re discussing.

“So you’re assuming it’s a man then?” Connor asks as he presses his elbow in slow circles in Henry’s back. He strains not to groan with Markus in earshot.

Markus shrugs, “Our women have better penmanship. The missive we obtained is an insult to chicken scratch.”

“Fair enough,” Connor concedes. Markus offers to let him read it, but Connor declines, “I’ve seen enough evidence to prove the point. Tell Josh to take the lead on this one; we need to know how deep this mutiny goes.”

Henry jerks badly, “Mutiny? Aren’t those usually a bit…lethal?”

Connor gives him an indulgent smile, “So sweet of you to worry.” He boops Henry on the nose and the lord scrunches his face against the action, “Don’t fret, my buttery biscuit. I have it under control.” Henry deeply regrets ever discussing biscuits or butter with this man. He’d developed the habit of teasing him about it since their unusual picnic.

When Connor dismisses Markus, the man leaves without as much as a glance at Henry. The other pirates were less kind, hissing things at him about what he and Connor must get up to in his private rooms.

Decision made, he forcibly rolls out from under Connor, “I would prefer it if you would desist in mortifying me in front of your crew for sport.”

Connor’s shoulders hunch up at the request, but his tone remains light, “But you look so fetching when you’re pink.” He looks over his shoulder in time to see a thunderous blush consume Henry’s face. With a wink and wolfish grin, Connor gestures at him, “Like that.”

“I don’t like it,” he insists even though a small voice argues with him that he does enjoy some of it. He’s grown used to Connor’s constant attention, even if much of it is embarrassing.

“I don’t understand why you do it,” Henry tries to wheedle out an answer without asking a direct question. Connor seems allergic to providing straightforward responses to inquiries. “It’s not as if you have to prove anything to your crew. They’re well aware I’m your…that I…” he breaks off at the odd look on Connor’s face.

“You respond to me. I take pleasure in it,” he sounds almost ashamed of himself. Henry struggles against the bizarre urge to comfort him. It’s not often that Connor reveals true emotions or lowers his protective barriers.

“I’ve been a bit of a bully, I know.” His head tilts back in a bitter laugh, “Mother always said I never knew how to express my affections appropriately. I’ve never been good at keeping my hands to myself. I’ll…work on it.”

With tentative fingers and a significant degree of misgiving, Henry extends his palm to rest in the center of Connor’s back. He arches in surprise before leaning into it. Henry wonders how much of Connor’s frisky lust routine is a front to mask his hunger for something else entirely. When Henry thinks on it, he can’t recall a single instance of someone offering Connor a kind touch. Not even so much as a handshake.

How often did Connor offer him soft touches? Nearly every day since Henry’s so-called abduction. “I didn’t say you had to stop touching me,” the words are out of his mouth before his brain can process them. Dropping his hand to his side, Connor turns and stares at him with an indecipherable expression, “I’m only asking you to stop purposefully embarrassing me.”

Connor’s head tilts like a globe on its axis, a pleased smile consuming his face. Reaching down, he pulls one of Henry’s hands into his own. He brings the tips to his lips and presses a gentle kiss there. “I think I can manage that,” the words wash over Henry’s skin as Connor’s mouth moves against his fingers.

When Connor releases him, Henry mumbles out a _Thank you_ before fleeing the room, muttering nonsense about needing to find a book. There are some actions a person can’t walk away from, and Henry knows he just cast the die in a game of Connor’s own creation.

Connor watches him as he pretends to read. He doesn’t pry or ask Henry to clarify. He doesn’t tease him or crowd him as he usually does either. Even so, from stolen glances over the book’s spine, Henry can all but see the cogs turning in Connor’s head. He wonders what he’s set in motion; he wonders why that thought makes him burn rather than run cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	3. Days 46-70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor doesn’t hear the first two steps Henry takes toward him, too preoccupied with his vicarious surveillance. He doesn’t notice Henry’s advance until he’s within arm’s reach. Henry’s hand freezes when Connor drags his eyes from his almost-touch to meet his gaze. Pure, devastating loneliness looks back at Henry from behind a mask of soft brown eyes and sun-freckled skin. 
> 
> He makes his decision when he sees Connor forcibly reigning in his emotions, trying to pull his careful façade of devil-may-care seductive behavior back into place. Henry doesn’t want to see Connor hurting; he doesn’t want to see his carefully constructed façade either. 
> 
> One large hand skims down the loose sleeve of Connor’s shirt. The neck hangs open as usual, laces drifting lazily with the ocean breeze. Before Henry can second-guess the decision or Connor can rebuke him, he pulls the slight man into a soft embrace. For a moment, mortification paints Henry’s face and he’s glad Connor can’t see it with his chin tucked over his shoulder. 
> 
> The doubt releases its talons from Henry’s guts at the sensation of Connor’s hands snaking up his back and pulling him close.
> 
> __
> 
> It took 70 days, but Lord Henry is coming around.

Henry had expected Connor to be all over him after their last conversation, but the man maintains a disconcerting distance over the next several days. Sometimes, Henry awakes to find Connor already out of bed. He usually finds him pouring over documents at his desk, forehead in hand, eyes squinting, as if he either has poor eyesight or the document in question is annoying him. It doesn’t take him long to identify the source of Connor’s sudden indifference.

Markus barges into Connor’s private quarters for the third time in as many hours, whispering furiously with his captain. Henry catches his repeated use of _mutiny_ before leaving just as abruptly. Turning the page of a book he’s read four times since setting foot aboard _The Jericho_ , Henry asks casually, “So, how fares the uprising? Identified any seditious pirates yet?”

Connor jolts badly at the question and Henry wonders if he’s miscalculated how far he can push the man. He’d meant it jokingly but walls rise up behind brown eyes all the same. Henry sighs, speculating how long it will take to bring them down again.

“It was a jest, Connor—evidently, a poor one.” Connor relaxes a fraction, deciding to take Henry at his word.

“I keep forgetting you know a bit about it,” he pushes a hand back through his hair and grimaces at the roughness. “What I wouldn’t give for an honest to god bath right now.” Henry knows the feeling. He’d let Connor plait his hair the evening prior to avoid having to deal with the briny locks. His scalp itches at the suggestion of a soak.

While the crew stinks to high heaven anytime they get within range of his nostrils, Connor mostly smells like salt. Henry knew it was from his nightly scrub downs at his personal basin. Connor had insisted Henry do the same once Henry began to “smell quite pungent” as the pirate had put it. While saltwater was better than nothing for rinsing grime from skin, it didn’t do much for the overall texture of hair.

When Henry doesn’t drop his expectant gaze, Connor huffs petulantly, “Oh, alright. Fine. I have a few likely candidates, but there’s been a frustrating lack of movement. Either they’re onto me or they’re waiting for an opportunity. Either way, it’s making my people antsy. Markus especially.”

“I’ve noticed,” Henry murmurs in quiet irritation as he turns a page in his well-worn book. He startles in surprise when Connor’s fingertips rest lightly on his shoulder.

Glancing up, he sees the amused curve of Connor’s mouth, “Missing me, are you?” Ruddiness dusts the apples of Henry’s cheeks and he forcibly jerks his attention back to his book.

When Connor’s hand grips more tightly, Henry realizes he’s waiting for an answer. Unable to look at him, he mutters, “Maybe.” The pressure on his shoulder lessens and Connor lets out a pleased hum.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Connor’s fingers glide across his forearm before he returns to scowling at intercepted missives on his desk.

True to his word, Connor’s attention is entirely on Henry when he locks up the documents for the day. When Markus walks in, Connor cuts him off mid-speech, “If there are no new developments, then we stick to the plan.”

Markus doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t look thrilled at whatever _the plan_ is. Putting voice to his thoughts, Henry probes, “He doesn’t look too happy.”

Connor wafts his hand about in the air as if to shoo away Henry’s concern, “Markus is averse to any and all risk. If I left everything up to him, we would have no funds, no ship—,”

“What risk?” Henry slices through Connor’s explanation like a hot knife through butter. Of all Connor’s men, Markus has struck Henry as the most sensible. If he has concerns, there’s likely a good reason.

Connor gives him a smile that lets Henry know he’s pushing his luck. He extends a hand, urging him to his feet, “We resupply tonight. Most of the crew will be gone.” As if on cue, Henry hears the familiar splash of rowboats hitting the water.

He cocks his head at him in a question, “Won’t you be going ashore then?”

Pulling him toward the stairs, Connor throws him a grin over his shoulder, “Not this time. There isn’t much of interest on that island. Mostly pirates, ruffians, and thugs. I see enough of them on ship.”

Since boarding _The Jericho_ , Henry hasn’t had many opportunities to see the sunset. More often than not, he finds himself ushered below deck so Connor can discuss whatever it is he’s planning with Markus in relative privacy. The crew doesn’t take kindly to Henry hanging about either now that he’s been released from manual labor.

He knows Connor keeps him cooped up for his own safety but it’s stifling. His only time spent outdoors is in the mornings on the days they practice at swords. Otherwise, he’s stuck sucking in stale air, re-reading books he could probably recite from memory by now.

Once on deck, Henry can see Connor wasn’t exaggerating. Markus lingers by the wheel while Josh checks on the anchor. Luther glances about before skulking away to hop onto one of the last remaining boats. Seven boats sail away from _The Jericho_ with nearly three dozen rowdy pirates shouting and laughing about rum, women, and more rum.

Henry sees the amused smile on Connor’s face, but he can’t summon up such ease, “Is it wise to let them all go at once?”

Connor rolls his eyes as a young man would at his fussing mother, “They aren’t _all_ gone. My first mate and boatswain are still here as is the sailing master. The crew needs a night away from their captain to run their mouths without fear of the lash. Besides,” Connor drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “the rum might loosen some mutinous tongues into wagging.”

They watch the men reach the shore in silence until they begin scattering like ants trying to regroup after encountering a rogue leaf in their path. Connor snorts softly when one of them cheers and points loudly in the direction of what must be a bar.

Soft music drifts across the breaking waves. “That’ll be Daniel,” Connor says on a sigh. He elaborates at a look from Henry, “He lost his family a while back. He joined my crew shortly after. Life at sea is rough and demanding; he prefers the exhaustion to dwelling on memories.”

Henry gestures to the shore where he can make out a blonde man playing a delicate instrument, “That doesn’t really explain the music.” At this distance, he isn’t sure if it’s a violin or a viola. The sorrowful tune he’s playing skews deep and he decides on the latter.

“He grew up among nobility and learned to play as a child. He picked it back up once his family…passed. He says it keeps his hands and mind busy,” Connor breaks off to listen to a heart-wrenchingly beautiful étude.

After a moment he continues, “It also provides entertainment for the crew. Musicians are a desirable commodity in my line of work. Most of them are pressed into service. Daniel sought me out and saved me the trouble of finding one legitimately.”

When Henry points out Daniel’s song, while beautiful, is wholly depressing, Connor nods toward the shore, “He’ll start taking requests here shortly.” Sure enough, a man kicks some sand in Daniel’s direction while gesticulating and laughing. Daniel obliges his request, picking up a lively beat. It’s not long before men are laughing, drinking, and jumping about in the general impression of a dance.

“Oh, ho. What’s this now?” Connor’s eyes gleam with interest as a slight individual with closely cropped hair saunters up to Daniel before throwing down what Henry assumes are several coins. If it weren’t for the swell of her breasts, Henry would have thought her a very small man or young boy.

At a nod from Daniel, she marches straight over to Luther before extending her hand. Luther only accepts after several of his shipmates catcall at him; some of the taunts are loud enough to reach Henry’s ears. Daniel strikes up a pleasant waltz and the slight woman begins to steer Luther around the beach much to Connor’s amusement.

“Oh, he’s never going to live this down,” Connor’s hand moves as if without his command, conducting the waves in time with the song.

Turning with a wistful sigh, Connor asks, “Do you know how to dance?”

It’s not a question Henry expected and his mouth runs off ahead of his brain, producing half sentences, “I—What? Of co—” His jaw snaps shut at the look Connor gives him from beneath his lashes. When he gets his mouth back in working order, Henry mutters, “No, there was never any need.”

He tells himself he doesn’t know why he spoke the lie. A now familiar voice whispers in the back of his mind _but you do_.

Connor pushes away from the railing, his expression that of a predator stalking its prey, “Would you like to learn how?” He extends his hand with the same energy as the woman on the beach.

It’s a gesture that forbids rejection and Henry isn’t inclined to turn him down. He accepts the proffered hand, and, as is usually the case when it comes to Connor, is almost immediately concerned he has bitten off more than he can chew.

Connor is everywhere at once. His right hand locks around Henry’s left, while the other wraps a good deal further than necessary around his waist. Pulling Henry’s chest flush to his, Connor begins to move him slowly around the deck.

Connor tilts his head up to murmur into Henry’s ear, “Follow my lead.” It’s a simple box step at first. Connor presses forward with his left foot, urging Henry’s right foot back. Stepping once to the side, Connor pulls Henry toward him as he steps back once more with his right foot this time.

He moves slowly, pushing and pulling with his body rather than using words to instruct. Like any well-bred noble, Henry knows how to waltz. While he’s used to being the lead, it’s not complicated to change up the direction of the steps. Still, he finds it charming that Connor is making a show of teaching him the paces.

“For someone who doesn’t know how to dance, you are doing a remarkable job of not treading on my feet.” Henry flushes, wondering if Connor’s worked out the truth. Before he can reveal his ruse, Connor continues, “Maybe you’re up for something a bit more advanced?”

Before Henry can reply, Connor resumes the three-count tempo, casually maneuvering Henry in quarter turns across the surface of the ship. Henry’s struck by Connor’s fluidity and even allows him to guide him through an underarm turn. He resumes the tempo without missing a beat.

The final notes of the violin fade as Daniel puts away his viola for the night amid much booing from his compatriots. The pirates wander off in favor of finding new entertainment, except for Luther and the woman; they remain swaying to a tune only they can hear.

Connor releases his grip on Henry and casts them an envious glance. Seeing Connor’s slight case of melancholy, Henry tries to distract him, “Where did you learn to dance?”

The diversion works to an extent. Connor stops watching the couple in favor of casting a Henry a sultry look that tells him he will live to regret the question, “I could ask you the same.”

Henry knows there’s no sense in denying it; he can feel a betraying blush well up and spill across his cheeks like wine on a tablecloth. Unable to control his face, he tries at least to stabilize his voice, “I know some basic steps. Nothing more.”

Connor appears to accept the half-truth for the time being. With a shrug, he explains, “There are some skills that come in handy and there are others I happen to enjoy. Dancing falls under the second of those two options.”

Henry contains a snort of frustration at the non-answer. It doesn’t really matter where Connor learned, he knows. He just wishes the man who is so insistent in pursuing him would relent to a single query.

_Why do you care?_

He’s asked himself this question a hundred times in dozens of circumstance since his unusual arrival to the ship. In the most recent days, it’s been hard to stifle his answer.

For the first time, while watching Connor lean once more against the railing, he doesn’t rebuke the voice when it whispers:

 _You like him_.

He knows it’s true—has known it for weeks—but still, he hesitates. It’s impossible. Allowing himself to fall for a pirate now would only bring worse heartache later. He can’t keep Connor and expect to care for Cole. The law wouldn’t allow it, he knows.

Even so, he can’t ignore the throbbing of his heart when he sees Connor aching to be touched. The jealousy in his eyes as he watches Luther and the woman, now hardly more than rocking side to side, is a tangible thing.

While he hasn’t felt like Lord Henry since stepping foot on this vessel, there is a relentless thought singing through his veins that demands action: Lord Henry is no coward.

Connor doesn’t hear the first two steps Henry takes toward him, too preoccupied with his vicarious surveillance. He doesn’t notice Henry’s advance until he’s within arm’s reach. Henry’s hand freezes when Connor drags his eyes from his almost-touch to meet his gaze. Pure, devastating loneliness looks back at Henry from behind a mask of soft brown eyes and sun-freckled skin.

He makes his decision when he sees Connor forcibly reigning in his emotions, trying to pull his careful façade of devil-may-care seductive behavior back into place. Henry doesn’t want to see Connor hurting; he doesn’t want to see his carefully constructed façade either.

One large hand skims down the loose sleeve of Connor’s shirt. The neck hangs open as usual, laces drifting lazily with the ocean breeze. Before Henry can second-guess the decision or Connor can rebuke him, he pulls the slight man into a soft embrace. For a moment, mortification paints Henry’s face and he’s glad Connor can’t see it with his chin tucked over his shoulder.

The doubt releases its talons from Henry’s guts at the sensation of Connor’s hands snaking up his back and pulling him close.

The dynamic between them is different after that. It isn’t any one thing Henry can point out as proof. The weight of feather-light evidence adds up over the course of a week to a tenuous handful of possibilities. Connor allows Henry to linger above deck for longer periods even when Markus casts meaningful glances in his direction. Connor is also less guarded, although no more forthcoming about his plans or his past.

The biggest tangible change is in the way Connor touches him during his near-nightly rubdowns. Where Connor’s hands were once greedy, groping at any exposed inch of flesh they could find, they’re now reverential, as if he’s trying to commit every caress of Henry’s body to memory. His fingers drum down Henry’s spine like rain tapping at a rooftop and Henry allows himself to sigh and sink further into the sea-salted sheets.

So used to Markus barging in on the heels of a knock, Henry doesn’t react when the door flies open. He startles badly when a voice calls out much too close for comfort in a nasal tone, “Get off yer pet and get on deck. Now.”

Connor, for his part, betrayals no emotion at all. Henry knew Connor was anticipating a mutiny; Henry had hoped to be better dressed for the occasion. Rising slowly so as not to incite the grimy man before them, Connor reaches for Henry’s shirt.

Halfway through handing it to him, the intruder ventilates it with a well-aimed jab of his cutlass, “He won’t be needin’ it.” Henry’s foreboding grows at the statement while Connor arches a supremely unconcerned eyebrow at the man.

“Tie ‘im up,” the man orders, tossing Connor a bit of rope. Once Henry’s hands are bound, the man yanks Connor’s own hands behind him to do the same.

 

Henry tries to survey the pirate without drawing his attention. After several glances, he concludes that this isn’t one of the crew Connor interacts with often. Whoever he is, Henry expects no sympathy from him.

As if to underscore the thought, the pirate kicks him hard behind the knee, dropping him to the deck. The scar-faced man approaches and sneers down at Henry before spitting wetly in Connor’s face. Brown sludge creeps down his cheek, smelling heavily of tobacco and rotten teeth.

Turning to face the man who hauled them up, the ring leader of the mutiny barks an order, “Tie ‘im to the mast; I wan’ ‘im—,”

“Really, Reed? The mast?” Connor’s tone sounds bored, but Henry can see the tension in his jawline and shoulders. Glancing around, Henry sags under the realization that none of Connor’s inner circle are present. He tries to recall hushed conversations, to remember when Markus would return with reliable crew members but fear clouds his memory.

The pirate Henry now recognizes as Gavin throws a wild right hook, catching Connor across the cheek. Henry winces at the sound of knuckles impacting against bone. Connor blinks hazily once, twice and then mutters, “That the best you got?” Henry knows Connor often fights dirty in his own experiences with the man. Still, even he didn’t expect Connor to rear back and head butt the mutineer in the face.

Angry, red blood spurts from the man’s nose as he howls in a rage. The man restraining Connor tightens his grip, ready to hold him in place so his new commander can beat him unhindered. Tugging in earnest at the ropes binding his wrist, Henry tries to free himself while the pirates’ attentions are not on him.

He’s not prepared for the soft sound Connor makes when Reed’s white-knuckled fist cracks across his mouth. He’d braced for a shout or cry of pain; he was wholly unprepared for the wounded _huh_ that spills across his lips along with a wet trickle of blood.

Henry knows he shouted, heard his voice call out, but a pommel rising to strike steals most of his attention. The blow hurts about as much as Henry anticipated. The difficulty breathing, however, is a surprise. His diaphragm clenches spasmodically as it attempts to return to baseline. As it stands, his lungs refuse to fill with air.

Henry’s noticed that time has a curious way of slowing when terrible things are happening. It had crawled to a snail’s pace when Zlatko had told him of Cole’s assumed fate. Now, with Reed’s full focus on him, time stutters when the man jerks his sword free from his side. Henry can read his intent clear as day in the hard set of his jaw and crazed gleam in his eye. His arms swing high in preparation to deliver a fatal blow.

In these final moments, Henry thinks of Cole, wishing he had seen him one last time.

He remembers Connor’s hands just moments earlier; he can almost feel them caress his face in a gentle promise.

Regret comes hard on the heels of that memory. He doesn’t have the time or inclination to pretend he doesn’t know why.

The thoughts pass in the molasses-slow blinking of his eyelids. He seeks out Connor’s gaze, hoping to convey truths he’s been denying for weeks. Instead, he sees livid brown eyes locked on the raised sword, his mouth open wide in a one-word scream.

It is agony.

It is rage.

It is Henry’s name.

For the duration of a handful of labored inhalations, nothing happens. It takes Henry several seconds to realize time is moving at full speed once more. Gavin still remains frozen, but his eyes are a touch too wide. One foot shuffles forward in the imitation of a step before he lilts to one side, a thrown dagger protruding from just below his shoulder.

He slumps weakly to the ground, setting off a chain reaction of chaos. Mutineers begin to fight or flee depending on their degree of loyalty to their now-incapacitated leader. Gavin’s ragged breathing assaults Henry’s ears as does the sound of clashing swords.

Ripping his gaze away from the dying man beside him, Henry sags in relief to see a soaking wet Markus fighting back to back with Connor. The battle to reclaim the ship doesn’t last long. When it becomes apparent to the lingering mutineers that Connor’s trusted elite are back on ship once more, their will to carry on the fight vanishes. Some take their chances with the sea and jump while others throw down their swords and drop to their knees.

Luther and Josh set about securing and detaining the mutineers while Markus tries to restrain Connor, “I’LL KILL HIM MYSELF!”

Henry follows Connor’s murderous glare and is surprised to see Gavin is still among the land of the living. Markus’ voice is devoid of all emotion when he speaks, “We still need to question him. We don’t know what Zlatko knows. Think about _the boy_.”

Connor and Henry both go rigid at the reference to Cole, “We need to make sure this rat didn’t ferret out his location. We need to play this one _smart_.” He emphasizes the word harshly enough to let everyone within hearing distance know what he thinks of Connor’s most recent plan.

Connor steps into his personal space, and the air on the ship crackles at the palpable anger simmering between the two. Connor’s mouth falls open, prepared to hurl anger at his first mate when Markus lets his sword clatter to the deck and spreads his arms wide. He isn’t looking for a fight.

Connor’s meticulously constructed front falters at the gesture. When Markus doesn’t hesitate or lower his arms, Connor leans forward a few scant degrees until the man pulls him into a tight-fisted hug. He mutters something to Connor that Henry can’t hear and his captain nods.

Markus releases him and takes a step back, ready to defer to whatever Connor orders. Connor points at Reed, “Lock this one up and make sure he doesn’t die before morning.” Markus nods and gestures for Luther to do as Connor said.

It’s been several weeks since Henry’s felt the fission between Connor at work and Connor in private. He doesn’t much enjoy his return to being an ill-placed table that Connor will deal with at another time. He has no tangible evidence, but he’s almost certain Connor’s abrupt shift in mood has something to do with whatever Markus said.

Before he can force Connor to explain the events of the last hour, Markus has a firm grip around his wrist, “Let him be.”

Fairly certain he could summon the strength necessary to throw Markus overboard in his current state, he yanks his arm free, “Go to hell.”

He expects Markus to take a swing at him or fire back a retort. Instead, he presses his palm to Henry’s chest in a quiet appeal, “Give him a moment. He needs time.”

Henry’s upper lip twitches in aggravation, “We almost _died_. For what? What in the hell is going on?”

Markus eyes him before shaking his head, “Not my story to tell. We’ll have to lie low for a bit and send out scouts. You’ll have plenty of time to question him. I promise you, he won’t be going anywhere without you.” Casting a frustrated glance in Connor’s direction, his anger recedes slightly when he sees weary lines marking his face.

With a sharp turn, Henry stomps with ill grace to Connor’s private cabin below. He paces the rooms until the first pink glow of dawn peeks out on the horizon. Submitting to fatigue, he collapses in Connor’s bed. Despite his exhaustion, he tosses and turns, uncomfortably aware this is the first time he’s slept alone while aboard Connor’s ship.

Unpleasant dreams plague what little sleep he achieves. Images of Connor, bloodied, wounded, or dead, dog him every time he shuts his eyes. He startles into consciousness with a swing of his fist and a shout when a cool hand touches his wrist. Luther deflects it with ease. Despite being on ship with the man for months, Henry’s hardly ever heard him speak. At a soundless tug, Henry follows him in silence.

Connor stands at the wheel, exhaustion etching every inch of his body. Although his face is free from blood, vestiges of it remain around the collar of his torn shirt. The beginnings of a black eye color the right side of his face.

The hard lines of his mouth go soft around the edges when he sees Henry approach. When he realizes Henry is irate, he raises his hands in defense, “Henry, I can expl—,”

Henry crosses the space between them in three large strides before crushing Connor to his chest. “Never,” the words come out quiet and for Connor’s ears alone, “do that to me again.” He hadn’t meant to hug him. He wanted to throttle him, punch him, and quite possibly toss him into the sea. However, seeing his battered face, remembering the way he screamed his name, he finds relief at Connor’s survival outweighs his anger.

The ship is a whirlwind of activity as they drop anchor off the coast of a small island. Connor explains it’s a hideaway while he sorts out the details of just how much information Gavin was able to give to Zlatko. At a dark look from Henry, Connor promises to explain everything once they’re safely on land. Markus rows the three of them from ship to shore before returning for more crew. Henry sees several other trusted men doing the same.

Physical and emotional exhaustion tug at Henry’s eyelids and he offers no resistance when Connor urges him into what he can only describe as a hut. It has meager furnishings—a straw tick bed and a chamber pot—but Henry’s too tired to care.

Henry awakes to the foreign sounds of animals scurrying about outside. The arm slung across his torso and the head burrowed against him is comfortably familiar, though. His heart lurches when he wonders if he’ll ever get used to sleeping alone again.

For a moment, Henry lets the world wait. He could wake up Connor and demand answers. He could demand to see Cole. He could do a lot of things. In this minute of peace, he wants to lie still and focus on the weight of Connor’s limbs draped across him.

Eventually, his bladder and bowels begin to protest and Connor stirs at a loud caw from a bird native to the island. Blinking away the last vestiges of sleep clinging to his lashes, Connor stretches and announces to Henry, “You stink.”

All things considered, Henry can’t summon any regret for gripping Connor by the bicep and thigh and bodily tossing him out of bed. It’s only a three-inch fall, after all, and Connor deserves it in its entirety.

Connor accepts his expulsion from bed with good humor and urges Henry to join him outside after he relieves himself. While Henry attempts to remain a civilized person who pisses and shits indoors, he can hear Connor merrily doing so against a tree outside the hut while shouting at the birds to piss off. 

Grumbling about ill-mannered pirates, he balks when Connor tugs him toward the dense jungle of trees and plants just beyond their meager dwelling, “I’ve had enough near-death experiences, thank you. Who knows what parasites live in there?”

Snorting, Connor shoulders a canvas bag before asking, “You do realize you’re turning down a chance at a hot bath in fresh water, correct?” Henry’s mouth snaps shut and he follows Connor in comical silence. Several months at sea with hasty ablutions in salt water had made him more appreciative of potable water than he thought possible.

Sweat beads along Henry’s hairline the deeper they follow a well-worn path and humidity clings to leaves in fat droplets. When they round a sharp bend, Henry all but whimpers in relief.

“Hot springs,” is Connor’s only explanation as he starts shucking off his clothes. Unconcerned with propriety for the first time since meeting Connor, Henry follows suit. Both men groan as they sink up to the neck in a steaming pool.

Tilting his head back into the water, Henry watches Connor scrub at his scalp. Water rivulets stream down his arms in beads, catching the sunlight like gemstones. When Connor opens his eyes, Henry doesn’t look away.

“Are you going to tell me what we almost died for?”

Connor eyes him wearily but nods, “Mayor Zlatko isn’t as lazy as I thought. Thankfully, he is a stupid man. He wanted to renege on our deal and take back his funds. I did the legwork and he doesn’t lose one copper coin. Win-win in his book”

Connor lapses into silence, shifting closer until Henry prompts him to continue, “He wasn’t showing his hand and I needed to force the issue. I started dropping false information, making out our defenses as weaker than they are. My inside circle knew it was a farce, but Gavin took the bait as you saw.”

“So where’s the part where the whole thing went belly up?” Henry asks in a wry tone.

Connor scowls at him and swats at his shoulder, “It didn’t! I sent away Markus and some of our top defenders to create an appealing target. Markus took longer getting back than either of us expected. The current wasn’t in his favor. We planned for him and the crew to re-board under stealth and shut down the mutiny. It worked…after a fashion.”

Henry gapes at him, trying to formulate a coherent response, “You _meant_ for the attack—the mutiny— _What?_ ”

Connor gives him a devil-may-care grin, “I had to ferret out the traitor somehow. You weren’t meant to ever be in any danger. Markus was _supposed_ to return with trusted men straightaway and have the situation well within hand before we even emerged from the cabin.”

Henry’s anger flares to life again, hot words bubbling in his mouth, “That’s assuming they didn’t decide to off you right then and there in your own bed!” While he speaks, Connor half exits the pool to grope at the nearby bag he’d carried with him. Henry’s eyes flick along the graceful curve of Connor’s spine, no longer remembering what it was he meant to say next.

“I forgot,” Connor explains as he extracts what looks like a comb from the canvas satchel. “You mentioned your things. I sent some scouts a few weeks back; they returned quite a bit later than I expected—you’d only just fallen asleep when they arrived; I didn’t want to wake you.”

Henry knows Connor is trying to distract him and it’s working. Extending his arm, Connor continues, “There wasn’t much left of your personal effects, but we did salvage a few belongings. This one seemed the most personal.”

Connor leans in to hand the comb to Henry, a delicate feminine looking thing. He accepts it with shaking hands, “It was my mother’s.” Henry stares at it in disbelief, his anger rippling away in the face of their safety and this token. He had no idea Connor had done this for him. He looks up to find Connor is still close. Too close.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” his voice comes out huskier than he intended and a flush colors his cheeks.

Connor looms closer, brown eyes heavy with want, “I do.” Henry expects him to devour him, but the first brush of his lips is softer and gentler than the batting of eyelashes. Henry feels the smile against his mouth before Connor withdraws for him to see it spread lazily across his features.

With a somewhat dazed and confused look from Henry, Connor reaches into the bag once more. Henry wants to run his fingers across Connor’s taut ribs. The man emerges victorious from the bag with a bar of soap, a container of oil, and a wink, “We are still unacceptably smelly. My scouts thought I might enjoy some lordly soaps and oils for my hair.”

Henry eyes the bar and barks out a laugh when he recognizes it as yet another trinket from his home. He never thought he’d be so pleased to see something so common. Dipping backward, Connor ducks his hair into the steaming water before scrubbing at his scalp. Handing the bar out blindly, he urges Henry to do the same.

It takes Henry a good deal longer to cleanse his hair of salt and grime than it does Connor by virtue of his much longer, thicker locks. Connor helps him undo the plait before he sets himself to the task. He fully anticipated Connor’s hands to wander, but he still jolts when delicate fingers pull the soap from his fingers.

“Don’t mind me,” is all he says before lathering his hands and roaming Henry’s back. He tries to firmly tell himself it’s no different than any other night that Connor’s spent pawing at him. His body betrays him with a shudder when Connor’s hands ghost around to run up his chest.

If it weren’t for the soap on his head, he’d open his eyes to see. Operating blind, he tries to focus on scrubbing his hair clean while Connor works on the rest of him. The first time Connor’s hands dip below the surface of the water, Henry lets out a yelp and his cheeks burn at the sound.

Ducking under the water to free his scalp and eyes of lingering soap, Henry wonders if he can stay under the surface forever. When the need for oxygen starts to throttle his lungs, he emerges with rivulets rolling down his face and torso. Connor’s head is tilted to one side, an amused expression on his face, “Are you alright?”

Henry glares at the pirate, muttering about how he can clean his own body, thank you very much, when he tries to tug the soap free from Connor’s hands. His grip doesn’t relent; his smile grows until it’s mostly teeth.

“I wasn’t done with you, yet,” his tone is delicate, but he’s much too close for Henry to process the words. Fingers cleaner than Henry’s seen in months reach for his face. When he doesn’t pull back, Connor presses in for another kiss. Despite his aggressive groping moments earlier, his kisses remain slow and indulgent.

Despite his years, Henry is out of practice when it comes to romantic interludes and it shows. He startles badly when Connor’s hand rests on his thighs. It’s enough for Connor to pull back with a curious expression on his face, “Have you never…?” He trails off with a rotation of his wrist, gesturing to the air without saying the words.

Deep red stains Henry’s cheeks when he replies, “I have, yes.”

Connor’s head flops from one shoulder to the other before getting to the heart of his inquiry, “I meant with a man, Henry.”

Henry has no idea where Connor hails from, but, in his city, such couplings are rare—at least among the nobles. Most of them focus their attentions on securing an heir. He knows of a few whispered rumors about secret lovers, but, to date, he’s only heard of a handful of lords who blatantly took male lovers to their beds.

Henry shakes his head, “No, but I’ve…heard things.” If Connor finds the information off-putting, his expression doesn’t show it. In fact, he appears somehow more eager upon learning the details.

“Have you ever touched yourself there?” Mortification creeps up Henry’s face for reasons unknown to him. He assumes it has more to do with Connor’s tone than anything he said.

Before the moment can become any more mortifying, Henry replies in honest confusion, “Where?”

“Oh, Henry,” Connor’s expression is painfully fond and he strokes at Henry’s cheek before kissing him thoroughly. Henry had never cared much for kissing and found it an irritating pre-cursor to getting a task completed. With Connor, he understands the appeal. His lips are plump and warm and his tongue is soft as it presses against his mouth, seeking entrance.

As much as he pretended he hadn’t noticed before, his semi-hard erection bobs with interest in the water when Connor’s fingers dig into his chest and sink below the surface. Henry sends out a silent wish for Connor to take him in hand already before he dies of embarrassment. Instead, Connor’s hand snakes down to his hip before moving to grope at the generous curve of his backside.

“Stand up,” Connor all but speaks the words into Henry’s mouth. No less bewildered, he complies with his usual good-naturedness. Connor’s hands are on the soap again before he moves and starts rubbing circles into Henry’s lower back. Just as Henry’s about to ask what he’s doing, a slippery, firm grip wraps around the base of his rapidly filling cock. The sensation is enough to punch the air from his lungs.

Connor’s free hand continues pressing soapy whorls into Henry’s skin before drifting lower to run between his buttocks. He jerks wildly, but Connor’s hand on his dick keeps him in place as he swipes soapy fingers against his puckered hole, “Here, Henry. I meant here.”

Despite the heat of the water, Henry’s knees shake badly and attempt to buckle. He dips briefly into the water before rising again and bracing against the edge of the natural pool. Connor leans into him, his cheek pressed against his back while making soothing shushing sounds, lightly stroking him through his panic.

When Henry continues to say nothing, Connor murmurs words into his skin, more considerate than Henry thought the man was capable of, “We don’t have to; we can stop.” For a moment, Henry considers backing out before he’s gone too far. Then a tendril of unrepentant lust bursts free from his gut to firmly shake his head, “No. I don’t…I want to.”

Connor exhales a pleased sigh while giving Henry’s thick waist a small, happy squeeze. Reaching for the oil Henry always assumed was only meant for hair, Connor upends it across his hands. His fingers return to Henry’s shaft, gliding with much more ease than before. When Connor’s fingers find his entrance once more, Henry twitches and clenches hard.

Running a thumb in lazy loops around the rim, Connor whispers, “Relax, Henry.”

Startled by a terrifying thought drifting across his mind, Henry blurts out, “You’ve done this before?”

Connor’s soft laugh against his ear would be answer enough, but he says softly, “Not as often as you must think, but yes. I’m no novice. I won’t give you more than you can handle.” As if to prove his point, Connor’s finger slides in while Henry’s distracted. It’s odd and unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. Still, he isn’t entirely sure what the point is as Connor’s finger hooks inside him, clearly searching for something.

He’s on the verge of letting Connor down gently—maybe he’s not as experienced as he thought or perhaps this isn’t something that works for Henry—when his finger brushes against something exquisite inside him.

He knows he must’ve shouted because Connor chuckles and stills his hands before advising Henry to keep his voice down if he doesn’t want nosy pirates coming to investigate all the yelling.

“Considering all the other things Markus has walked in on you doing to me, I really don’t think he’d be surprised.” The words are out of his mouth is a ragged, rushed retort before he can consider them more thoroughly.

Connor’s response is to pet at that spot more firmly while resuming his casual stroking of Henry’s cock. “Look at you,” he says quietly while slotting his chin over Henry’s shoulder. “One finger in and already mouthing off.” 

A sound like a large, wounded beast escapes his expansive chest when Connor adds a second finger and works at the place inside him that sets his skin aflame with need. While his experience prior to this was scant at best, he knows without a doubt he’s _never_ felt like this before.

Connor’s voice reaches him through a haze, showering him with words of encouragement between kisses pressed into damp skin.

_You’re doing so well, Henry._

_You look so good like this._

Henry bucks into his grip at his words, embarrassment unable to filter into his brain when desire has it firmly in its grasp. When Connor ceases his prodding in favor of a continuous, relentless massage, Henry’s hips stutter in several lewd half-thrusts.

A distant part of his mind recognizes that he’s babbling nonsense and that Connor’s crooning praise in response. A frantic, inexorable ripple of pleasure laps at the edges of his skin, making its way closer to where Connor’s hands knead and pull simultaneously. Henry isn’t sure what will happen when they collide or if he’ll survive it.

It starts in his scalp—a curious tingling sensation that he doesn’t recognize until it reaches his lips. “ _Connor_ ,” the word leaves his mouth in a broken sob and ends on a whimper. Connor’s answer is to tighten his grip while sucking a bruise to life in the curve of his neck.

Henry groans at the sensation, “Your crew will see.” His tone doesn’t indicate displeasure at the thought even if his voice shakes.

“Then let them see,” Connor growls out, nipping at the same spot, encouraging it to blossom into an undeniable claim. As if it wasn’t already painfully clear, Henry is Connor’s to mark. The implication of his words tips Henry over the edge with a sharp inhalation. Heat coils and spasms in release, spilling over Connor’s hand as he milks the place deep inside him that Henry never knew existed.

Connor doesn’t relent until Henry’s a shuddering, sobbing mound of flesh, barely able to hold himself up against the onslaught of unbearably wonderful sensation. He repeats Connor’s name like a wish he never knew he needed fulfilled until this moment. When his knees try to fail him, Connor draws him back down into the water, his own unanswered erection bobbing in wait.

Henry may not be familiar with all this as Connor is, but this much he knows he can handle. Connor lets out a small _Oh_ of surprise when Henry boldly takes him in hand. Connor had clearly expected this initial encounter to end with Henry’s release but some traits go to the bone. Lord Henry is not a man to leave a favor unanswered.

It’s a bit sloppy underwater, but Henry’s familiar enough with this situation from personal experience to navigate it with skill. Connor’s shoulder blades retract when Henry’s fingers drift between his legs to fondle him. Emboldened, he swirls against Connor’s hole. He can’t do much more than this without the oil discarded several feet away on the ground, but it seems to be enough for Connor.

“That,” he huffs out, his eye clenched shut against Henry’s caressing, “feels…” His voice fades off around a word that might’ve been _amazing_ if Henry hadn’t leaned in to kiss him. One of Connor’s hands threads into Henry’s hair while the other rests lightly over the hand stroking him. He doesn’t guide him so much as join him.

Connor breaks the kiss in a gasp when he comes, his head thrown back in a silent shout. Henry supposed men who share small spaces with other men must learn how to silence their release to avoid awkward situations. Before his mind can wander too far down that path, Connor is crowding into him, holding his face in his hands.

“You are a gift, my lord,” for the first time since meeting him, Connor sounds sincere while using his title. Hiding his persistent, unavoidable blushing at such declarations, Henry pulls Connor into a kiss.

 _Yes,_ he thinks, _the world can wait a while longer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	4. Days 71-85; 85-220

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor stands with the fairy tale colored sky framing him in the doorway. Henry follows, linking their hands together, unwilling to let go. Connor pauses and tilts his head upward. His eyes are glassy, “I’ve killed people. Toppled governments. Men like me don’t get happy endings.” He sucks in a shuddering breath, “I can’t ask you to wait for me.” 
> 
> Hope kindles to life, warming Henry to the bone, “That’s not your choice to make.” Connor’s fingers grip at his tightly before they pull free. 
> 
> __
> 
> Whew! I didn't intend for there to be a one-month wait between chapters. Life has been crazy and I was out of commission for a week, but here is the latest installment!
> 
> There is sex, there is angst, but—most importantly—there is hope.

It takes Henry seven more trips to the springs to get Connor to agree.

“I know there’s more to it than _this_ ,” he underscores his point by ghosting his fingertips under Connor’s sac, half-floating in the warm water. Connor’s scowl transforms into a hooded, sultry gaze at the touch.

“Oh, do you now?” Connor purrs back, enjoying the hint of a blush peeking along the ridges of Henry’s cheekbones. Reaching out water-wrinkled fingers, Connor strokes at the bloom of it, following it back to his hairline.

“Men can fuck,” Henry’s voice comes out quiet but certain in his conviction. 

Connor would laugh at the statement if it wasn’t for the look Henry leveled at him. It’s been quite some time since Connor’s had someone demanding that he fuck them, much less someone as lovely and large as Lord Henry Anderson.

Still, Connor hesitates.

“It’s different than fingers,” he starts slowly, uncertain if Henry had followed his logic train to its obvious conclusion. Henry’s response it to reach between them and grip at Connor’s growing erection. _Logic train firmly docked in the station, then_ , he thinks to himself.

Connor takes more time than usual to work him open. Henry was used to two fingers at most and adding a third proved to be a startling challenge for the lord. Connor expected it given the lord’s inexperience; Henry, apparently, had not.

“Do you want to stop?” Connor asks the question while stroking lightly within. Despite the awkward stretch, the sudden brush of sensation coupled with fullness makes Henry’s shoulders sag under the heavy weight of want. He shakes water-laden hair, sending droplets flying.

“Do that again.”

Connor smirks into Henry’s shoulder, pressing into the man firmly and pulling low sounds from his large chest. He reaches around to stroke at him languidly, distracting Henry from the unfamiliar prep work involved.

Henry clenches horribly at the first press of Connor’s cockhead against his puckered entrance. Connor pulls back to reduce the pressure and presses a kiss into Henry’s damp back just above his shoulder blade. “Relax,” his tone is softer than his lips whispering the word into Henry’s skin. For as composed as he sounds, Henry doesn’t overlook the slight tremor in the hands gripping at his waist.

Much like his first experience with Connor, the initial penetration feels bizarre with the addition of distinct discomfort as he gets used to the added stretch. Connor eases into him slowly, withdrawing often before nudging back in a fraction deeper than before. Henry’s forearms shake where they lay pressed against the edge of the natural pool of fresh water.

He’s on the threshold of backing out when Connor brushes against him in a way that steals the air from his lungs. It is infinitely better this way—on the verge of overwhelming if he’s being honest. A pleasurable sensation, warm and deep, blooms to life and consumes him like a cloud of smoke. Connor rocks into him again, slow and sure, easing away Henry’s tension and replacing it with needy desire.

When Connor bottoms out, he rests his head against Henry’s shoulder for a moment. His hand releases a large hip in favor of tracing along several purple markings in various states of fade. Pressing his lips to the crook of Henry’s neck and shoulder, he nips a new one into life.

Henry would flush and grimace later if Connor pointed out the marks. Even so, Connor sees how Henry shudders at the drag of his tongue or the scrape of his teeth. The low moan that escapes him when Connor presses a kiss to the darkening spot is confirmation enough.

Connor murmurs “You ready?” and waits for an answer before bringing his hips back into motion. At Henry’s rosy nod, he withdraws slowly and presses back in at a reverential pace. He pushes across the pleasure point inside Henry before dragging his cockhead back over it. Henry’s knees buckle at the direct, insistent onslaught of Connor’s attention.

“Whoa now,” Connor’s arms snake around Henry’s waist, helping him regain stability. “Stay with me,” he whispers against his ear as he continues his unrelenting campaign of taking Henry apart one thrust at a time. Henry isn’t sure if Connor means to stay with him here in this act or for forever; his tone is too soft to be certain.

Henry can tell Connor’s holding back for his benefit, but there’s more to it than simple consideration. Connor’s hands hold his hips like a gift given specifically to him. His movements are intentional, bordering on adoration. It’s a side of him Henry doesn’t often see. A surge of fondness pulses up Henry’s spine and he arches against it. Connor’s fingertip traces along each vertebra, sending tingles in their wake.

Henry can’t afford this growing attachment, he knows. But, for now, he’ll ignore the words of warning calling at the back of his mind.

_You cannot keep him._

A well-aimed thrust from Connor sends the words skittering away. A sound halfway between a sob and a shout crosses his lips. He doesn’t bother to silence himself. He knows most of the men are away gathering reports on how the wind blows following Gavin’s attempted mutiny.

More or less alone with Connor, Henry expresses himself freely much to the pirate’s delight. Connor groans his approval at a soft whimpering exhalation that escapes Henry’s chest when he reaches around to stroke at his straining erection. The big man wasn’t aware he could produce such gentle sounds and he flushes a crimson more deep than rhubarb pie at the realization.

Lord Henry has never been a delicate man, but he feels distinctly on the verge of shattering beneath Connor’s hands. A tremble grips his body, a forewarning of his impending release. Connor’s thrusts increase in speed, attempting to catch up. Henry spills across Connor’s fist, the man’s name tumbling out of Henry’s mouth in a breathy wail.

Connor moans in answer, bucking hard and pulling overwrought mewls from Henry’s chest with each thrust. Sensitive and overstimulated, Henry can feel a howl building in his gut. “ _Connor_ ,” Henry calls to him and it’s equal parts affection and prayer. He can’t keep this up for much longer, but he’ll try for Connor.

Henry’s tone pushes Connor over the edge and he shouts an indistinct sound as he slides in for a final time. His arms wrap around Henry from behind, holding him close as he waits for his ragged breathing to slow. Connor’s warm and his weight is pleasant. Even when Connor eventually draws back, they linger in the warm water as if some unpleasant truth sits waiting for them on dry land.

Days spent by the natural springs had made it easy to play pretend while biding their time on the island. Henry had no notion of what signal Connor was waiting for, but he was obviously content to pass the time in various creative ways with Henry.

Henry could sense Connor’s growing sadness, the way his fingers lingered rather than pawing at Henry in the dead of night. Connor had an excellent poker face, but, every now and then, he would look at Henry for a touch too long. Sometimes, his gaze bordered on staring as if he was afraid Henry might vanish if he looked away.

When Markus returns, Connor’s mood nosedives noticeably. His only interest seems to be sprawling across Henry despite the oppressive heat of high noon. His fingers drum absently and he sighs unconsciously more than once.

Having had enough of Connor’s silent pouting, Henry prods him gently, “You’re not telling me something.”

A hint of Connor’s roguish grin graces his features, “That’s hardly unusual.” The smile fades and his fingers resume their restless tapping, “But you’re not wrong. Lord Simon has run a successful political campaign against Mayor Zlatko. Gavin, traitorous turncoat that he is, had quite a bit to say when threatened with—well, let’s just say he is neither harmed nor is he brave. Although, I can’t imagine he is much enjoying prison under Lord Simon.”

Connor shakes his head, getting back to the point, “In the end, fancy words and strategy were enough to oust Zlatko. No bloodshed required.”

Connor pauses, thoughtful, “Well, for now at least. Who knows if Zlatko will concede defeat with grace? I don’t believe the man intends to submit himself to prison quietly.”

Henry jerks, “What? I thought you sa—”

Connor strokes Henry’s chest as if he is a large, amusing pet, “There was no great battle, but Zlatko’s crimes won’t go unpunished. I very much doubt he’ll survive prison. Not when so many of its residents have him to thank for their bleak existence.”

Henry notes Connor’s tone, as if the thought brings him no joy, “I should think having him gone would make you happy.”

Connor makes a small gesture with his head, “It’s far easier to kill a man in a fair fight or self-defense. I had expected to cross swords with him—not send him to a cage filled with monstrous men ready to filet him. The end result is the same, but it settles unpleasantly on the mind.”

Henry ponders Connor’s curious sense of justice. The more he gets to know the pirate, the more he realizes the tales of violence and plundering were always woefully short of the typical vicious attacks of other crews. True, men had fallen beneath his blade, but those individuals had been cruel and abusing their people. It made sense, in a way, even if wildly illegal and a touch juvenile.

Connor’s voice interrupts Henry’s reflections, “I depart at dawn.”

Henry immediately keys in on Connor’s phrasing, “When will you return?”

Connor continues, ignoring the question, “Markus will set off a blaze. Simon knows your location, but he will make it look like a rescue mission. He’s reinstated your status among the nobility. You have a great many friends, my lord. Zlatko’s seat could easily be yours if you desire it.”

Henry doesn’t particularly want it, but Connor’s tone almost begs him to take it. It’s important to him even if he won’t share his reasoning.

Henry sets that aside to discuss more pressing matters, “And where will you go?” The rapidly lightening sky holds more dread than any rising sun Henry can recall in his lifetime. He should want to go home; he should want to be free. Instead, he finds himself longing for another day—for more time alone with Connor. It’s madness, the wetness of his eyes. Sheer lunacy, the throbbing of his frantic heart.

When Connor doesn’t answer, Henry tries to stall him, “You could stay…you could…” He fades off. He knows there is no way Connor could come back with him. A known and wanted pirate?

Connor’s bitter laugh provides his answer before his words do, “You know that’s impossible.”

A hysterical sob tries to gurgle up Henry’s neck, but he forces it down. Even so, he can’t keep the accusatory words locked away, no matter how tightly his clenches his teeth, “Did it mean nothing to you?”

Connor goes still beside him and Henry braces for the man to shrug him off. When had Henry let himself forget he was a captive? When had it slipped his mind that Connor, no matter how noble his intentions, is a pirate and has likely had meaningless sexual conquests in the past given his experience?

Henry swallows thickly around a lump more solid than clay in his throat. He tries not to think too hard on where Connor had gained his experience and skills for wrecking Henry one slender finger at a time. Henry is not a stupid man. He _knows_ others came before. The thought doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the realization that Connor must lust and leave with regularity.

Henry expects Connor to rise or make a casual remark. He’s unprepared for the pirate to press their foreheads together, “It meant everything to me.”

Henry’s heart constricts painfully at the unexpected admission. This is much worse than indifference. He can’t ask him to stay again. He won’t beg. He wouldn’t be able to bear Connor’s refusal now.

Connor stands with the fairy tale colored sky framing him in the doorway. Henry follows, linking their hands together, unwilling to let go. Connor pauses and tilts his head upward. His eyes are glassy, “I’ve killed people. Toppled governments. Men like me don’t get happy endings.” He sucks in a shuddering breath, “I can’t ask you to wait for me.”

Hope kindles to life, warming Henry to the bone, “That’s not your choice to make.” Connor’s fingers grip at his tightly before they pull free.

Henry watches him row to his ship alone before joining Markus at the wheel. Connor never looks back.

True to his word, the familiar sails of Lord Simon peek over the horizon just as Connor’s black flag fades across the graceful, unpitying curve of the sea.

The first month of waiting is as agonizing as it is silent. He receives no word from Connor and the seas remain calm. No news of _The Jericho_ or her crew makes it to the papers.

After three months, Henry stops scanning the horizon for a familiar banner. His new duties as Mayor fill his hours with busy but rewarding work. Cole keeps him from falling into melancholy when his work obligations are done at the end of each day. Their reunion is one of his only recent memories that isn’t tainted with uncertainty and sadness.

It takes time to rebuild trust with the citizens even if they elected him to the position. They’re wary of those in power, and Henry doesn’t blame them. His first act of reevaluating prison sentences set my Mayor Zlatko earns him a great deal of regard.

After four months, it gets harder to recall the specific details of Connor’s face. He doesn’t lose hope so much as he can’t devote that kind of energy to thoughts of Connor anymore. The memories have sharp edges. Pay them too much attention, and he may bleed.

An annoyingly persistent ambassador hailing from the country of Wellington helps keep his attention occupied once Henry untangles Zlatko’s messy approach to leading. The foreign dignitary grates on his nerves, asking irritating questions regarding relations between Henry’s own town and the country well and far across the sea.

The ambassador bows deeply and the bend of his back is apologetic, “Forgive me, your lordship; her majesty is extraordinarily cautious in these recent months. There was a bit of uproar back home. The great nation of Wellington may be small, but we pride ourselves on our stability. Madam Stern fears she has been neglecting relations with certain allies as of late. She wishes to arrange a meeting to discuss repairing friendships.”

Henry stares at the man in stark confusion, “You do realize I am but a mayor here. We are one town among many that make up our kingdom.”

The ambassador concedes the point with a nod of his head, “True enough, Lord Anderson. However, your slice of the country manufactures the goods we require to keep our country operational. Madam Stern wishes to arrange the meeting as a small gesture of apology. We cannot afford to look weak in this time of uncertainty and meeting with larger titles than your own would draw undue suspicion from neighboring enemies.”

Henry squints at the man, trying to see through his excessive response. He knows Wellington has enemies, but he’s making the situation out to be much direr than Henry thinks is possible. Still, he can’t afford to offend an ally. His position is too new to heft around any political weight. Consulting his calendar, he agrees to a meeting in two weeks’ time.

“Excellent,” the man announces with a pleased clap of his hands. “Madam Stern will be most pleased. She begs your pardon that she won’t be able to come herself, given the uncertain nature of our waters at this time, but she will send a suitable envoy in her stead.” Henry waves a hand at the man, used to such posturing. The leaders of entire countries did not leave their borders to meet with a mere mayor.

Something nags at Henry, though, about the peculiar meeting. He hadn’t heard of any trouble across the sea. This wasn’t suspicious in and of itself given Wellington’s notorious secrecy. Even so, he can’t escape the feeling he’s overlooked an important detail.

He dresses with greater care than usual for the meeting. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches for the fine clothes he’d worn when first taken captive. Lord Simon had presented them to him upon his so-called rescue, wrapped in fine paper with a note containing only a large _C_ pinned to it. Connor had done him the favor of returning him his clothes. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to think of Connor in weeks. The usual confusing clash of emotions follows, but he doesn’t have time for them today.

He paces the room in agitation, waiting for the foreign dignitary to arrive. His head whips at the sound of a door opening, but the ambassador enters alone. He wrings his hands and remembers to give a respectful bow just before speaking, “Forgive me, my lord. I was…I wasn’t expecting her majesty to send so import—someone so…” His thoughts drift, agitation clear on his face and body.

Henry adjusts his stance; he knows how to project power when he needs to, “Who am I to meet? I do not have time for political games.”

The ambassador blanches, “No, no—sir! That’s not it at all. You’re to meet with her majesty’s son.” The man breaks off, glancing about as if afraid the royal might pop out from behind a curtain. He adds, unnecessarily and belated, “The prince, I mean.”

 _Well_ , Henry thinks to himself, _something is definitely afoot_. He’d had his misgivings prior to this meeting. Something odd was going on, but he felt more intrigued than alarmed. Sending a prince to meet with a mayor was a bizarre maneuver, well outside the Wellington queen’s usual tactics.

The ambassador flusters about for several more minutes, giving Henry several tips on etiquette when speaking with nobility. Henry ignores him. He’s a lord and well aware of the rules of engagement. Eventually, the ambassador withdraws. Henry gets the feeling the man doesn’t want to be in the same room as the prince if he can avoid it—a curious behavior.

The small degree of anxiety Henry always feels before meeting with foreign dignitaries fades into irritation as the minutes tick by. He’s in the middle of checking his pocket-watch for the third time when the door swings wide.

The prince strides in as if he is not nearly an hour late nor a guest. His footing is sure as if he’s maneuvered the furniture of this office more often than Henry himself. He’s dressed overwhelmingly in silver and dark blue. His head is turned, displaying the back of a dark head of hair. He’s looking behind him and speaking in a low tone to a second man evidently just beyond the door. He pauses, only partially in the room.

Even in this action, the prince makes Henry wait to see him.

Henry is having none of it, “Your mother, the queen, asked for this meeting and it is well-passed the hour. Does his highness need to postpone?” Henry’s tone makes it clear he is unimpressed with the prince’s manners and overall disregard for other people’s schedules.

Henry sucks in a sharp breath when the back of the prince’s head waxes into profile. A warm brown eye crinkles at the corner as a familiar visage turns to face Henry fully at last. Even with trimmed hair, fine clothes, and a neat circlet, there is no mistaking Connor.

“Forgive me, my lord. My entourage got quite lost and mother does insist on over packing. It took a great deal longer for my baggage to arrive than anticipated.” Connor speaks as if without recognition, but his eyes positively emanate barely contained energy. Leaning back toward the door, he converses quietly with whoever is standing guard.

Coming to an agreement with a wink, Connor asks, “Would you mind terribly, Lord Anderson, if we had this meeting in private? My men have some misgivings, but I’ve assured them you aren’t a threat as a representative of one of our greatest allies.” Connor inclines his head in an imitation of deference. Henry knows Connor will close the door no matter his answer and remains mute.

An almost-frown flickers across Connor’s mouth at Henry’s frosty silence and the door clicks shut. When Henry doesn’t move to greet him properly, Connor crosses the room in long-legged strides. He gives Henry a small, polite bow. Henry’s response is to slap him with a gloved, open palm. Connor’s face moves fluidly with the action, either expecting it or accustomed to receiving smacks as a result of his behavior.

Blue eyes blaze with fury. His tone heavy with a betrayed accusation, Henry spits out, “So. You’re a prince.”

“I am,” Connor admits, his stance coated every inch in caution.

A thousand thoughts crossed his mind upon seeing Connor’s face. Hundreds more slither and writhe even now. How Henry had longed to see him again. Now that he’s here, Henry wants little more than to defenestrate him from the tallest tower. This is worse than not knowing and waiting.

 _He is a prince. The son of an ally._ It’s enough information to know that whatever had passed between them would remain as memories. There is no way the queen would allow her heir to share a bed with him. More likely than not, Connor has a bride waiting for him back in Wellington. It’s impossib—

Connor’s voice slices through Henry’s frantic considerations, “You’re thinking so loud it’s almost as if you’re speaking.” Henry’s mouth falls open in an angry gash to spew bile when Connor heads him off, “I owe you an explanation. Several, in fact.”

Deciding silence is better than attacking the son of a sitting ruler, he folds his arms and waits. Connor must realize that he has limited time before Henry boots him from the room either verbally or physically, “My mother sent me with a missive. All I ask is that you read it.” He rummages at his waistband before producing a slender scroll

Scowling darkly, Henry rips it from Connor’s grasp. Wrenching open the ornate wax seal bearing the Stern family crest, Henry’s eyes dart across several lines of elaborate cursive. Realizing he’s read the same sentence four times without comprehension, Henry shakes his head to try and set aside some of his rage.

Connor waits, an uncharacteristic anxious tension bubbling beneath his skin. Henry knows Connor must be waiting for a reaction to the words on the paper and he does his best to guard his features. To hell with mouthy run-away princes playing at pirating and politics. He won’t give him the satisfaction if he can help it.

Despite this, Henry’s shoulders relax in fractions the longer he reads. While he’s able to keep emotion from his face, Connor can see disbelief replace some of the anger in the way he holds himself. Setting the parchment on his desk with much greater ease than he used taking it from Connor, he fixes the younger man with a look carefully devoid of emotion.

“You have stepped aside as the heir apparent.” It’s a statement, not a question. The queen’s missive had made that much clear.

Still, Connor answers him, “I have. In favor of my younger brother, Richard. It would seem the people of my country don’t take kindly to their future king abdicating his duties and disappearing for years without explanation.”

Henry tries very hard not to snort and settles on coughing into his fist. Once under control of his voice, he continues on, “The queen of Wellington has always had a way with words, but I’m not certain I am following her intent.”

The guarded look Henry knows so well tries to rise on Connor’s face. It takes an effort on Connor’s part to will it away and keep his expression open, “I am exiled for lack of a better term.” At Henry’s blank look, Connor clarifies, “I haven’t been declared a criminal or removed from the family, but it would be unwise for me to linger in my home country. I am too turbulent, as mother puts it. She doesn’t want my presence to affect the transition of power.”

That much Henry had deciphered from the wordy-without-saying-much letter, “What is this about _maintaining diplomatic relations_ and _compensation for my patience_?”

Connor barely contains an eye roll, “This is her way of asking if you wouldn’t mind keeping me busy and out of her hair. She wants me to serve in some function for appearance’s sake as well as stay as far away from Richard as I can.”

Henry eyes Connor with ill-concealed suspicion, “And what exactly does your mother intend for you to do?”

His answer is immediate and free of guile, “Serve as a consultant of some sort. The title sounds fancy, but, mostly, I would just point out the snakes in the grass trying to bite the heels of both our countries. My…,” Connor fades off as if uncertain how to phrase his next thought. “My former _occupation_ granted me a lot of insight into a great number of countries and their leadership structure. I have a significant amount of useful knowledge. I can tell you of three threats facing your town alone if you agree to the terms.”

Henry bristles at Connor’s gall, “What makes you think I want you here at all? You’re a liar and a criminal.” Henry had hoped the words would stab through Connor to give him a small taste of what he’s feeling. Instead, regret falls heavily on his shoulders.

Connor sags under the accusations, but he doesn’t deny them, “You can say no.” His tone is quiet and sad, “You’re not my only option. I had hoped…I had wanted—still want…” He fades off, lacking much of his usual self-assuredness.

“Where else would you go?” Henry asks, modulating his voice.

Connor shrugs in a helpless gesture, “Lord Simon would be my next best option. Several other nobles owe me great debts.”

Despite his anger and the deep sense of duplicity, Henry sighs, “That will be unnecessary. There is an empty wing you can use—it’s smaller than what a prince is likely used to, but it will more than do for a pirate.”

Connor’s eyes widen in disbelief and he tries to splutter his thanks. Henry cuts him off mid-speech, “Get out of my office.”

Connor does as he asked and heads back toward the door, preparing to exit with much less bravado than when he’d entered. He goes still as his fingers brush against the knob. He glances back once then twice as if he wishes to speak. Henry resolutely ignores him and he leaves, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.

Henry’s head falls into his hands and he sucks in shuddering breaths, weighed down by warring emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	5. Days 221-252

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor visibly recoils before narrowing his eyes at Henry’s rejection, “What’s your actual quandary, my lord? That you can’t trust me or that I didn’t trust you?”
> 
> Henry knows Connor is at least partially right. He’s known from the moment he laid eyes on him after months of separation that the anger that had sprung up so forcefully was mired in the simple fact that Connor had never told him the truth—that Connor hadn’t trusted him.
> 
> Even so, it’s not his wounded pride making him dig in his heels. Hurt, visceral and thick as tar, courses through his veins, “I gave you _EVERYTHING_!” Henry roars at him, and Connor cowers under the force of his righteous indignation. “I hid _nothing_ from you. I suffered your teasing, I grew to crave your touch, and, like a fool, I let you hold my heart in your treacherous hands.” 
> 
> __
> 
> Connor really, really needs to apologize.

_A young boy’s voice screeches his name with delight from the docks, frantically hopping in the way all happy children do when they can’t contain their emotions any longer, “Henry!”_

_Henry beams at Cole from the bow of the ship, waving with the first inkling of happiness he’s felt since Connor’s abrupt farewell. The boy appears well if not a little hollow. Henry recognizes the look; when death touches someone so young, it leaves a mark. Henry knows he can’t replace the boy’s mother, but he’ll do his best to care for him and keep him safe._

_He’s not even off the ship before the boy is rocketing toward him, clinging a little too tightly. Henry returns the hug with a few squeezes to let him know he’s safe and secure. He feels Cole’s small chest deflate as tension visibly leaves his body at their reunion._

_He lets Cole break the hug first before dropping to one knee to be eye level with him, “Let’s go home.”_

Henry awakes to a burst of warmth at the dream. He knows time has a way of softening memories and making them seem happier than reality, but he’s almost certain reuniting with Cole will always have a place in the highlight reel of his life.

His feet are halfway into his house slippers when he remembers why his chest is tight with sorrow despite the happy dream.

Connor. A prince. In his house.

Connor. A liar. An abdicator. A thief. A—

Henry knows what Connor is. He’s repeated the list to himself over and over in the week since he’d booted the wayward prince from his office after giving him a place to work and sleep. He’d come to the logical conclusion to let him go, to wait out his bleeding heart until it hardened. He has Cole. He has his home. It should be enough.

It’s not.

His heart screams every morning when Connor pretends not to watch him as they eat before the day’s work begins. He schools his expression and keeps his eyes on his food. It tastes like ash compared to the memories of Connor’s mouth.

With a shake of his head, he pushes back against the recollections of his time spent alone with Connor, before he knew the truth. Just as moroseness threatens to color his entire day, Cole comes bounding into the dining hall.

“You’re late again,” Henry remarks trying to keep his face stern. Cole’s hair is everywhere and he has the sleepy look of someone still not fully awake. A yawn stretches his mouth wide around an attempt at an explanation.

Connor intercedes on Cole’s behalf, “It’s my fault, my lord.” Before Henry can find an excuse to end the conversation, Connor continues, “We were up late working on Cole’s star chart.”

Henry bites back a spiteful question about where Connor learned to read the stars. It wouldn’t do for Cole to learn of Connor’s colorful past nor would it be wise to bare his teeth at Connor when Cole’s taken such a liking to him.

Henry had made the rather large mistake of trying to dissuade Cole from spending a lot of time with Connor. He’d postured it as Connor would need time to learn the ropes of his new role and duties. Cole had jumped in with both feet offering to be his assistant. He followed Connor around like a talkative sprite, growing more attached with each day.

Henry supposes he should’ve expected it. Cole only knew Connor as the man who helped rescue him and reunite him with Henry. Lord Simon had talked of him often enough that Cole had built Connor into a hero figure in his mind. Connor held a place of high esteem in Cole’s young heart and Henry isn’t cruel enough to disabuse him of the notion. He’s lost enough in his short life.

Taking lunch in the privacy of his office, Henry startles badly when Connor’s voice calls to him, soft and uncertain, “My lord?”

Henry tries and fails to pass off the startled flailing of his hands as a reach for a biscuit on a nearby tray. If Connor notices, he doesn’t comment.

“What is it?” Henry asks gruffly around a mouthful of buttery bread, shuffling some papers at random to avoid looking at Connor or the curl of hair flopping endearingly across his forehead. It brought back memories that tasted like salt. He could probably feel the ocean breeze if he let his mind wander too far.

“It’s about the town of Flint,” Connor begins cautiously, stepping into the room as if uncertain of his welcome. “There are problems that you need to be aware of before they creep onto your doorstep.”

The news wasn’t all that surprising given Flint’s financial instability. Henry had spent much of his tenure as Mayor trying to undo Zlatko’s damage that had further ravaged the beleaguered town. He had been met with suspicion and resistance, making very little headway.

“I am aware of the challenges they’re facing,” he grumbles bad-temperedly. He’s about to shoo him away when Connor steps more firmly into the office, squaring his shoulders in a way that reminds Henry how such a lithe man could command an entire pirate crew. His stance speaks volumes: Henry will hear him out whether he wants to or not.

Henry purses his lips but motions for Connor to have a seat, “Tell me about Flint.” It’s worse than Henry’s own intel had led him to be. Connor brings him up to speed on the poverty, the crime, and the water shortages.

“They lack the basic standards of living, my lord. Zlatko’s promises couldn’t hold air much less deliver potable drinking water. They’re hungry, sick, and have no patience for new government leaders to implement change. Things are…well. They’re—”

Henry recognizes Connor’s diplomatic attempts at shaping his next words and interrupts, “What are they planning?” He asks the question with a sigh. Connor stares at him, apparently flummoxed by Henry’s lack of alarm. He arches an eyebrow at the pirate frog prince, “Lest you forget, this is not my first time in the saddle of leadership. I was a lord with duties well before I took on the title of Mayor. I know how this game works. So, I ask again, what are they planning?”

Something close to heat flashes behind Connor’s eyes at Henry’s competence, but the expression is gone before Henry can examine it more closely. Not that he wants to, he reminds himself with a firm mental shake.

“I can’t be certain. It’s hard to communicate when a great deal of my network there can’t write,” Henry contains a wince at how slow Flint has been to develop after Zlatko ravaged it. What was once a thriving town had fallen to chaos in recent years. Those with the means left for greener pastures while the impoverished remained behind to flounder.

“They don’t trust this city anymore. Detroit may have a new leader, but the name is stained in the eyes of Flint. I believe they mean to ransack us.” Henry doesn’t miss Connor’s use of _us_ or the implication that he’s already accepted the town as his new home.

Connor’s eyes Henry uneasily, chewing his lip in hesitation. The lord sighs, “What else? I can see you’ve more to say on the matter.”

Connor nods then glances at the door to make sure it’s shut against eavesdroppers, “I don’t have confirmation. It’s a guess. My opinion, for what that’s worth.” Henry says nothing, not wanting to encourage or dissuade. He needs to keep Connor at arms’ length for his sanity, but he can’t afford to turn aside information regarding the safety of his people.

Connor swallows thickly in the silence. Despite the hushed quality of his tone, his words strike fast and hard at Henry’s chest, “I think they mean to target Cole. I think he’s in danger.”

Henry’s lungs seize painfully while his heart thuds audibly behind his ribs. Connor continues to surveil him cautiously as if fully aware Henry is on the verge of lashing out in a panicked rage.

“It’s only a theory,” Connor begins, holding his hands out in front of him, palms up. “But I know these people and I know who’s running their operation. They’re desperate and they want results now, not a year from now. Taking his lordship’s ward would certainly be a powerful bargaining chip. I don’t think they mean the boy any harm, but that is not a risk worth taking.”

“Certainly not,” Henry agrees, his mind racing. “We’ll need to increase his security. Perhaps restrict him to the building for the time being.”

“He’ll hate it,” Connor offers quietly, but there’s no rebuke in his tone. “I can amuse him with swordplay when he grows bored if his lordship would allow it. We could clear the formal dining hall to make room. No one uses it anyway.”

Henry eyes Connor sharply, trying to suss out his ruse. As far as he can tell, the offer is earnest and without guile. Connor continues to defer to Henry despite the massive disparity in their titles and relative influence. Henry exhales heavily, prepared to make the concession, “Very well. I’m almost certain Cole is going to be less than thrilled with having to remain indoors until I can quash this threat.”

“That may be a bit of an understatement, my lord,” Connor gives him a conspiratorial smile. “We were both boys once. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to slip out regardless just for the sake of doing it.”

Henry begins to argue but falls silent. Memories of his youth flit through his mind and he pinches the bridge of his nose, “You’re probably right. Maybe you should be the one to tell him. He’s taken a liking to you.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so bitter, but Connor’s eyes widen a fraction at his tone.

“The boy adores you, you must know it,” Connor replies, correctly interpreting Henry’s jealousy. Henry says nothing, opting to cram the last bit of biscuit into his mouth instead. He knew where he stood with Cole, but Connor had more free time to do things the boy enjoyed. Most of his time with Henry was going over lessons and prepping him for what to expect in the future.

Cole was at that curious age where he was still a child, but he was on the verge of shedding the coat of youth. Soon, there wouldn’t be time for play and games and antics. Henry wanted Cole to enjoy his few remaining carefree years while he could, but he couldn’t leave him unprepared for his future. It was as delicate a balance as it was exhausting.

“You’re all he talks about,” Connor’s voice is nearer than Henry expected and it jolts him out of his musings. Connor’s eyes are warm and concerned and much too close. He can see his reflection in them.

“I’m trying to do right by him,” Henry admits, hoping that giving Connor this inch will make him back up several feet. He doesn’t move.

“You’re the only father he knows,” Connor counters. “He says as much, at any rate.” A warm tendril blooms in Henry’s chest. He knows Connor could be lying, that to trust him would be foolish. Still, he’d never lied when it came to Cole. Henry allows himself to hope he’s not messing up too badly as a parent figure.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Henry admits without meaning to. His eyes dart to Connor’s and away again, trying to conceal emotions he would’ve once shared with the man with ease. Something throbs painfully in his guts to have Connor so near but so utterly unworthy of his confidence.

Silken, fleeting fingertips press against his forearm. Henry eyes the gloved hand as it retracts and Connor murmurs, “No parents ever does, or so my mother has led me to believe. You’re here now and you’re trying. That’s more than many fathers can say.” Connor’s eyes go hard and his lips press into a firm line; it’s no secret that the Queen of Wellington had no King. Henry had never thought to ask as to why and Connor’s expression makes him hesitate.

Still, Connor must notice the curiosity in Henry’s expression as he provides an explanation without prompting, “My father wasn’t keen on the notion of playing second fiddle to my mother. He’d hoped to cow her and puppet her.”

Henry snorts loudly, well aware that Madam Stern isn’t easily manipulated. Connor gives him a knowing smile, “As you can no doubt imagine, that isn’t how things played out.”

“It must’ve been hard raising two boys while managing the throne,” Henry offers and Connor makes a noncommittal sound.

“She had help enough, but life would’ve been easier with a cooperative spouse, I’m sure. I haven’t seen the man since my sixth birthday, though he continues to stir up trouble among mother’s adversaries. He called me Richard and then puked on the stairs.” Henry knew the Stern twins were reported to look very alike, but slight differences existed. He’d never met the younger twin now poised to ascend to the throne or his wayward father.

“I was always told growing up that I take after him. I didn’t realize until I was much older that it was meant as an insult. Arrogant, cocksure, and stubborn,” Connor’s voice takes on a pained quality and it takes a massive effort on Henry’s part not to say something sympathetic. Henry knew Connor possessed those qualities, but he was so much more than that. Connor cared and worried about the marginalized people who had no voice almost to a fault. While Henry hadn’t agreed with Connor’s tactics, he’d seen enough positive change wrought by the force of his will.

 _He’s a degenerate pirate_ , Henry’s brain hisses from the back of his skull, and the truth and the taint of it oozes up over his scalp in an unpleasant prickle.

 _Yes, but without Connor, there would be no Cole._ The defense springs so readily to mind that Henry blinks in confusion several times.

Deciding Connor’s presence is affecting his judgment, he seeks to end the meeting with haste, “You’ll speak to Cole then?” Connor nods, his hand drifting to where a hilt of a sword used to rest and Henry guesses Connor’s already plotting out their lessons. Henry’s memory takes the opportunity to remind him of a particularly fetching mole on Connor’s hip near his flexing hand, hidden beneath expensive breeches. Henry clears his throat and Connor takes his leave.

It takes all of three days before the staff is in total uproar.

“My lord,” his usually levelheaded steward begins in a tone bordering on rude. “The young sir is terrorizing the staff. The Prince of Wellington may be a guest and honored tutor, but—,” Henry holds up a hand to interrupt and the man falls dutifully silent.

“Until all threats can be ruled out, Cole is to remain indoors. He’s a young boy; you can’t honestly expect him to sit and do needlepoint or study all day.”

“At this point,” the steward mutters huffily, “I would accept any activity that didn’t involve the clanging of swords and the ventilating of curtains.”

Henry tries and fails to contain a mirthful snort, “Really, Benjamin, your age is showing. It wasn’t that long ago that you and I were ruffling the staff’s feathers.”

Unimpressed hazel eyes level an even look at Henry, “I’ve aged half a lifetime since those two first began crossing swords. Look at my hair!”

Henry grins in amusement, “Ben, you turned grey before you’d seen your thirtieth year. Don’t go casting stones at the boy that he didn’t earn.” Ben harrumphs a little until Henry promises to speak to the pair about containing their enthusiasm during sparring. No sooner than he speaks the words, a loud crash echoes from the dining hall.

“I’ll leave it to you then,” Ben says with a bow and beating a hasty retreat before Henry can change his mind. With a sigh, Henry doesn’t need to guess what caused the noise. A heavy suit of armor usually stands on display near one of the dining room’s entrances. It’s the only thing that could make so much sound.

He expects to find Connor and Cole hastily trying to reassemble the metal suit. Instead, he enters to see them still going at it, metal practice swords gleaming in the mid-afternoon sunlight, “Better, Cole. Don’t forg—,” Cole lunging forward, cutting Connor off mid-advice, and he grins at the tactic.

Henry knows Cole doesn’t stand a chance against Connor in a real fight, but that’s not the point. Cole’s eyes gleam with glee until he oversteps and Connor trips him up. The boy goes sprawling and Henry half expect him to cry out or pout. Instead, he springs to his feet demanding another round.

Deciding the armor can wait, Henry backs out of the room without drawing attention to his presence. Cole’s happy and safe; that’s all the matters. It’s what he repeats to himself when mental images of Connor lunging and parrying refuse to let him be for the remainder of the day and well into the night.

He’d been dressed much as he had when aboard _The Jericho_. Willowy pale arms protruding from the loose sleeves of a plain white shirt tucked into simple black breeches. The neck hung open and Henry had spied freckles and moles he wishes he could forget.

The memories haunt him, preventing sleep from reaching him. After tossing and turning for what feels like hours, Henry reaches blindly for his repeater to confirm his suspicion. The device chimes twice and he groans, knowing the morning will bring exhaustion. A mere five hours stand between him and the sunrise and _still_ his mind refuses to settle.

He rolls uncomfortably to his stomach, ignoring the arousal pressing into his gut. He’s well aware why sleep eludes him and his erection throbs in agreement when an image of Connor lounging in a natural spring pops unbidden into his mind.

Much like an out of control horse cart hurtling down the cobbled streets, Henry can’t stop the visuals once they’ve begun. Memories of Connor’s hands, his long slender fingers, playing across his skin—on him, in him, holding him—assault him even as he squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught.

It’s a losing battle, he knows. He grows harder and more desperate as the memories of his time alone with Connor on the island cocoon around him like a security blanket that refuses to be put away. It’s an embarrassingly short time from when he takes himself in hand to when he’s spilling over his fist, Connor’s name on his lips.

Emotional fatigue consumes him and he doesn’t bother to dwell on why his eyes are damp. Too tired for shame, he pushes the feeling away. It hovers at the edges of his consciousness, waiting to consume him when he can recall his behavior in the light of day.

He’s unsurprised to hear the clattering of swords despite the early hour when he takes his breakfast in the informal dining room. It’s off to the side of the formal version pulling double duty as sparring grounds for Connor and Cole. The staff appears less than enthused that swordplay is off to such an early start, but they expected as much with the weekend upon them. While work rarely ceased for Henry since picking up the title of Mayor, Cole’s studies could be put to the side for a couple of days.

“Henry!” He startles at Cole’s thin voice shouting for him as his head swivels around the room. His eyes light up when they land on the lord. “Connor says you can fight! He says you know how to cross swords!” Henry scowls in Connor’s direction, a weak attempt to hide a blush creeping along his cheekbones. He had hoped to avoid Connor for the day if he could, still ashamed of his ongoing attraction to the pirate.

Connor’s eyes crinkle with mirth as he folds his arms and shrugs in a “what can you do” gesture. Henry sighs before confirming, “Yes, Cole. I know my way around a sword.” Connor makes a sound that could be a muffled laugh and Henry’s flush takes full bloom at what Connor’s likely thinking about.

Before he knows it, Cole is tugging at his hand and pulling him into the formal dining room, which has definitely seen better days. The staff had taken preventative measures, removing drapes and laying large carpets over the fine wood. The oversized table lay dismantled with the surface leaned against the wall and the legs heaped in an ungainly pile off to one side.

Cole thrusts a practice sword into Henry’s hand before demanding, “Show me a real fight!” Henry looks blankly at Cole who’s staring pointedly at Connor.

“What?” Henry asks in a bemused tone and Cole huffs while Connor tries to contain a small smile.

“He won’t show me the fancy moves!” Cole stomps a small foot in indignation but Henry doesn’t miss the shiftiness of his gaze.

“He means I won’t show him how to cheat,” Connor supplies and Henry feels a warm pulse at the words. Connor may be a lot of things, but he wasn’t going to encourage dishonesty in a child, “I’ve told him he can’t possibly perform any stunts without mastering the basics.”

“The basics are _boring_ ,” Cole insists, a pout clear on his face.

Henry ruffles his hair, feeling a faint tug of sadness that there aren’t many years left where Cole will let him do it, “Yes, I can see the evidence of your boredom all over the room.” Henry points to nicks in the chair rail as well as a heap of sword-slashed curtains that the staff will repurpose as pillowcases or bandages to avoid waste.

“Can’t you just _show_ me? I want to see! Connor said you know how. He said—,” a rich bubble of laughter from Connor cuts Cole off mid-request.

“I said the Lord knows how to use a sword. I never said he could fight like me,” Connor teases and gives Henry a smug look. Henry’s fingers itch around the hilt of the sword.

“Let’s give the boy a show,” he counters, moving the blunted blade in a few broad sweeps to warm up his muscles and jolt his memory on proper form. He hasn’t touched a sword since—he doesn’t let his mind think too hard about it.

Connor starts slow, letting Henry get used to wielding a blade after months of disuse. Henry’s out of practice, but Cole’s been running Connor ragged for days. Connor may be more skilled, but he’s tired. Henry falls back on what he’s used to, defending himself more than attacking. This usually wore him out before his opponent fatigued, but Connor’s energy flags and his form shows signs of weariness.

Henry’s blade runs the length of Connor’s before smacking hard against the hilt, slamming it into Connor’s knuckles. Connor scowls at his pain numbed-fingers, switches hands, and presses Henry hard. Not expecting this tactic, Henry falls for one of Connor’s feints.

Recognizing the maneuver, he realizes he’ll wind up flat on his back the moment before Connor swipes his feet out from under him. Cole giggles with glee as Henry’s tumbles to the floor, yanking at Connor’s loose shirt as he goes. If he has to go down so quickly in front of Cole, he’s taking Connor with him.

Worn out and unprepared, Connor yelps as he falls backward, twisting in an attempt to control his descent. He lands in a heap sprawled across Henry’s chest reminiscent of their nights spent together aboard _The Jericho_.

For a moment, Henry can’t breathe nor does he want to. He wants to stay like this, to ignore every problematic truth keeping Connor at arm’s length. A ghost of a grin crosses Connor’s face and warmth reserved for Henry kindles behind brown eyes. He’s certain Connor must feel the traitorous thudding of his heart. He’s close enough to count his eyelashes, to see the slight parting of his lip, and—

“CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGE,” Cole screams in the high-pitched battle cry of all young boys, hurling himself bodily into the fray. He lands on top of Connor, pushing an _oomph_ of discomfort out of Henry from his added weight.

The moment broken, Henry and Connor struggle to disentangle themselves from each other as Cole whacks at the both of them with a wooden sword.

“I yield! I yield!” Connor says through a laugh, holding up his hands. “We surrender,” he adds, nudging Henry with an elbow.

Henry feels a dismissive comment rise up his throat, ready to shut Connor down and push him further away. He shouldn’t be playing games like this with the man. He shouldn’t lower his walls. Still, he hesitates and Connor sees it.

Sticking out a hand, Connor gives him a slight nod, “To a match well fought.” Cole’s grin falters at Henry’s brief hesitation and it makes his decision for him. He won’t act like a boar in front of the boy. His hand slots with Connor’s, returning the gentle pressure.

From then on, Henry joins in on the sword lessons whenever his schedule allows for it. It’s the only time it’s bearable to be around Connor. Cole’s delighted laughter softens the pulses of hurt. It also helps him forget the true reason behind the frequency of the swordplay.

As wonderful as it is to spend time with Cole, his frustration at the continuing threats against Detroit is palpable. The first real threat against Cole comes three weeks after Connor forewarned him of its possibility.

“Who would have the gall?” Henry rages in his office, a messenger cowering as the lord paces angrily about the room.

“You’ll wear a hole in the carpet if you don’t stop that,” Connor admonishes lightly and Henry’s head jerks up to see his not-so-long-ago lover step into the room and shut the door.

“Who invited you?” Henry spits out, and anger simmers into cool regret at the pang of hurt that crosses Connor’s face. Damn him, and his pretty eyes. Straight to hell with his scar-slashed brow and milk-white skin. Curse the pale expanse of his freckled chest chiseled into Henry’s mind.

He sighs, wondering if his memories of Connor will ever let him be. Connor approaches him cautiously, confused by Henry’s odd oscillating body language.

“I apologize for my outburst,” Henry waves for Connor to come further into the room. “Another letter arrived. This one mentions Cole by name.” Connor’s eyebrows arch in understanding before accepting the proffered note from Henry.

“How bold of them,” Connor drawls, clearly unimpressed with the contents of the letter. “Have you spoken with Cole in detail about this? I explained about heightened security, but I didn’t think it was my place to tell him exactly why.”

Henry exhales heavily while drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, “I didn’t want to scare the boy. He knows about general threats, but that’s all. I didn’t have anything concrete before. I suppose that will have to change.”

After a beat, Henry asks, “Any suggestions?”

If Connor is startled by Henry asking for his opinion, he doesn’t show it, “Tread carefully. Let his questions guide the conversation. Don’t try to give him too much information at once.”

Henry opens his mouth then closes it without speaking. Connor appears lost in thought; he’s looking at Henry without seeing him.

“Is there something I should know?” Henry asks, curiosity piqued despite himself.

Connor gives him a small, pained smile, “I know what it’s like to grow up too soon. I know the kind of mark it leaves to carry a burden well outside your capabilities. I didn’t run away for the fun of being a pirate, Henry. Things haven’t been well at home for a long time. I wouldn’t wish it upon Cole. He deserves to remain a child for as long as we can provide it.”

Connor’s voice grows hard with conviction and Henry feels some of the ice thaw around his wounded heart. He’d never thought to ask why Connor had fled the throne in favor of sailing under a black flag.

“I agree,” Henry murmurs at last, wrenching his eyes away from Connor’s tragically beautiful face. It wouldn’t do to let himself fall for him again. Lovely or not, letting Connor back inside his heart was as safe as swallowing fire.

Henry manages to keep his growing desires at bay during daylight with work, strict mental reprimands, and a heavy dose of shame. With more duties than ever and his fear for Cole taking center stage, he didn’t often have the energy for arousal to work its way into his thoughts.

When it did, however, he always brought himself to completion with Connor on his thoughts. Humiliation writhed in his guts in the mornings after, especially if he ran into Connor himself. Connor had raised an eyebrow once or twice at Henry’s pink-tinged face, but he didn’t otherwise comment.

In the evening of a particularly stressful day, Henry closes himself into his private rooms with strict orders not to disturb him. He prescribes himself a warm bath, a snifter of cognac, and a book he’d been meaning to finish. Somewhere between the bath and the book, one glass of cognac becomes three.

Connor worms his way into Henry’s alcohol-tinged thoughts, refusing to let him focus on the words on the page. Deciding for once to ignore the impulse to pretend he’s not aroused, Henry tosses the book clumsily on his bedside table.

Within minutes, Henry is sprawled on his back, his large body commanding most of the bed. His robe lays open about his waist and thighs and he groans in satisfaction at the first slick pull of his hand. Half-lidded eyes fall on the tub, and Henry recalls warm springs and dexterous fingers touching him much as he is now. He exhales a soft sigh that sounds a good deal like Connor’s name.

A book slamming to the floor in a loud thud makes Henry’s heart try to leap through his skin. Bolting upright and yanking his robe closed, his eyes scan for the source of the sound. Connor freezes mid-crouch, clearly intent on picking up the book that had slipped from his grip moments before, “Henry—I…That is—,”

“What are you doing here?” Henry snarls, equal parts mortified and enraged by the intrusion. He’s thankful that the dim candlelight can hide his thunderous blush even if it does nothing to hide the obvious tent behind his robes or obscure what he’d obviously been doing before Connor slipped into the room.

Connor does little more than gape his mouth like a fish, clearly not expecting to stumble upon the scene he’d just witnessed, “I…you…that is—”

“Who let you in?” Henry growls the question, trying to encourage his anger to edge out his mortification.

Connor blinks in surprise at Henry’s overly aggressive posturing, “I was only bringing you a book. Everyone thought—we assumed—since it wasn’t work related…” Connor trails off, holding out the book as evidence of his innocence. It’s a copy of the very text Henry had on his bedside table.

“You’ve been stressed. We all have, but you bear the greatest portion of responsibility for Cole’s safety. I thought…I remember you reading this on ship. You never finished. You read a lot in the early days, when you were nerv—,”

“I wasn’t _nervous_ ,” Henry spits out, arguing for the sake of it. Connor levels a look at him that makes him feel approximately three feet tall.

“Regardless,” Connor presses, “I thought it might help you relax.”

“And you didn’t think to knock?” Henry’s anger simmers, ready to lash out at Connor. He knows the intrusion isn’t what he wants to rage at the man about. Hell, he’s not even that upset at being caught, dick in hand. Months of not knowing, of waiting, and it was all for naught. Connor’s a prince, he outranks him even if he’s stepped out of the line of succession. Playing the role of a diplomatic adviser doesn’t change who Connor is.

It doesn’t change the fact that he’d hurt Henry horribly, publicly, without warning.

Connor tilts his head as if trying to work out exactly what’s going through Henry’s mind, “I was about to knock, but I heard you say my name. You sounded…wounded. I thought you might be hurt so—”

“So you thought you’d come to my rescue? Play at being the hero again?” Despite his attempts to goad Connor into a verbal sparring match, he remains irritatingly calm. Even at this jab, Connor’s slightly concerned expression doesn’t waver.

“You’re _hurting_ , Henry. I see it every time you look at me. If you’d just talk to me—let me explain—I hate seeing you like this. I care about you,” he reaches out in a familiar gesture.

His fingertips are inches away from Henry’s cheek when the lord snorts in sarcastic disbelief, flinching away from the touch, “Why on earth would I believe anything you have to say regarding your feelings about me? You sure as hell never felt inclined to share them with me when I was your captive.”

Which wasn’t entirely true, but one emotional admission wasn’t enough to make up for an ocean of deception.

 _It meant everything to me._ Connor’s words echo back from a time where Henry hadn’t thought he could ache any worse. How little he knew, then.

Connor visibly recoils before narrowing his eyes at Henry’s rejection, “What’s your actual quandary, my lord? That you can’t trust me or that I didn’t trust you?”

Henry knows Connor is at least partially right. He’s known from the moment he laid eyes on him after months of separation that the anger that had sprung up so forcefully was mired in the simple fact that Connor had never told him the truth—that Connor hadn’t trusted him.

Even so, it’s not his wounded pride making him dig in his heels. Hurt, visceral and thick as tar, courses through his veins, “I gave you _EVERYTHING_!” Henry roars at him, and Connor cowers under the force of his righteous indignation. “I hid _nothing_ from you. I suffered your teasing, I grew to crave your touch, and, like a fool, I let you hold my heart in your treacherous hands.”

Whatever Connor had expected, it wasn’t that. He staggers away from Henry’s words as if they physically pain him.

“I did care for you—still care for you,” he says quietly. By his expression, Henry knows Connor can hear the insufficiency of his words. Henry turns his back on Connor and his sad eyes.

“Get out,” the words come out quiet and dangerous, spoken as if each syllable was its own sentence.

The floorboards creak as Connor steps closer, “I gave up a lot to come back to you, Henry. The risks were—”

“It’s easy to manipulate the situation when you make it about yourself,” Henry says coldly and Connor cringes at his tone. “I don’t care what it took for you to get here. It would’ve been better waiting, wondering, and never knowing than _this_.” Henry gestures at the entirety of Connor on the final word. His heart screams at Connor’s shattered expression. It is as much rage as it is regret.

Henry can feel a sob working its way up his throat and he all but bawls his repeated demand for Connor to go, “ _Leave me_.” He drops heavily to the bed and his hair falls in a slightly damp curtain around his eyes. Tears well and threaten to fall while Henry wills Connor to retreat to let him grieve in peace.

Instead, Connor crouches down to take Henry’s hands within his own. His fingers tense and sincere brown eyes meet watery blue ones as he exhales his answer, “Never again.”

They remain frozen for the space of two heartbeats before Connor sucks in a ragged breath, “I’m _sorry_ , Henry. I didn’t—I couldn’t…” He grimaces as if grappling with his thoughts, unused to apologizing. It’s a balm Henry didn’t know his battered heart needed.

Connor speaks in halting sentences, attempting to explain, “It was too much. Back home. Mother needed a replacement and soon. The political atmosphere was—is—toxic. It was “step aside” or be forced out by my father’s allies. They demanded a king. My father meant to have the throne one way or another. Mother bypassed him and named me her immediate successor. I found out when everyone else did—right there on the assembly floor.”

Connor’s hands turn clammy around Henry’s the longer he speaks, as if saying the words aloud make him ill, “I wasn’t ready. It was obvious to everyone. My brother was always more suited to politicking. I can’t stand it. I want to get things done as they need doing, not three months later while the townsfolk suffer. I saw my opportunity to escape it all and I took it. Things were going well…for a while.”

Henry tries to pull away from Connor’s grip, disgusted, but his hands clamp down like a vice.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Connor’s voice comes out hardly above a whisper. “No one was meant to die. They were horrible people, they deserved punishment, but I had intended to deliver them to the authorities.”

“Did you trip? Accidentally run them through?” Henry’s words come out harsh, but his tone lacks conviction. Had Connor not ultimately let Gavin live after nearly falling to the man’s mutiny? He could’ve killed him. He hadn’t.

Connor shakes his head, “Some of my crew took justice into their own hands. I couldn’t be everywhere at once. I was off ship when it started and returned to a nightmare. I didn’t want to go home but I certainly didn’t want to carry on when my mistakes could cost lives. Markus and I agreed: one final push. Do one last _good_ thing and save Detroit from Zlatko.”

Connor broke off with a bitter smile, “Some savior I turned out to be.”

Henry wants to comfort and throttle Connor simultaneously. The sheer audacity, the presumption that he could lead a band of rogue pirates without someone paying as collateral. He remains silent, waiting to hear what else Connor has to say.

Connor exhales a shaky sigh, “I knew I was to take you as a captive. I knew you by reputation. I didn’t expect—I was unprepared to like you. Immediately.” Connor’s sentences grow choppier as he nears the meaty center of the conversation. “I treated you terribly. I have no valid reason. You didn’t seem to return my attraction and I was…it felt like,” Connor ceases talking in favor of scrubbing at his eyes.

He mutters nonsense about dust and presses onward, “It was as if I was a little boy again, rejected for no reason other than being me. It’s ridiculous, I know. You thought me a pirate. Hell, I was a pirate.” Connor falls silent, staring with unseeing eyes at his hands still clasped around Henry’s.

“You could have said something,” Henry offers, trying to rouse Connor back into speech.

“Like what?” Connor laughs, his face sour, “Oh, by the way, I am, in fact, a runaway prince? It’s all better now?” He shakes his head before saying flatly, “You had come around to me. I had somehow managed to convince you to like me despite…everything. If I had told you—I was-I…”

“You what, Connor?” Henry asks quietly and Connor closes his eyes with a shudder.

“I was _afraid_. I’ve never had something to lose before. There I was, madly in love, knowing the truth would blow the entire thing to smithereens.” Connor releases his grip on Henry’s hands in favor of running his own down his face then through his hair, “How could I te—,”

“You what?” Henry interrupts with a croak, his stomach dropping to rest somewhere around his knees. _Love_.

“I was afraid,” Connor repeats himself, confused by Henry’s stricken expression. Slowly, horrified comprehension dawns on Connor’s face as his own words come back to him. His mouth drops open on the verge of speech, whether to explain or to backpedal, Henry would never know.

His chamber door slams open, and Ben’s sweaty, terrified face glows pale like a specter about to deliver a message of doom, “Henry, come quick.”

He can predict the words before they’re out of Ben’s mouth so he remains silent and lets the man speak, “Cole’s room is empty. He’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	6. Days 252-253

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor gives a half-hearted one-shoulder shrug, “Even so; after I deal with Leo, I think it would be best if I left. Whatever there was between us—I had hoped…it doesn’t matter.” Connor rises without looking at Henry. He can hear the pain in his voice and it’s several moments before he understands what Connor’s saying. 
> 
> _No_ , a firm voice cries out in the background of his mind.
> 
> Henry hears himself speak, “If you think that’s what’s best.” 
> 
> __
> 
> Sorry for such long delays between chapters (just over three weeks >_<)! I'm in the middle of moving and working on my RBB fic so things are slower going than I could like. Shout out to an actual bee ᙙᙖ for listening to me screech through the writing process.

Despite the terror pulsing a steady tattoo through his veins, Henry notes that Connor makes it out the door first. Hank catches up to him outside of Cole’s bedroom door with Ben bringing up the rear. All three men stare unnecessarily into the untidy chamber, hoping the boy will materialize.

It’s a hope without merit. Whoever had come and gone had wrecked the room in the process. Connor can’t seem to tear his eyes away from a spot on the floor and Hank’s heart lurches when he takes in a small splatter of blood. Even in the unlit room, the moonlight shining in through the window is enough to illuminate the deep red puddle on the floor.

“It isn’t his,” Connor’s voice wiggles its way through Henry’s panicked rush of thoughts.

Turning to face him, Henry’s voice comes out equal parts pained, wishful, and unconvinced, “How do you know?”

Connor points to a small practice sword scarred with use, “Cole put up a fight. The practice blades aren’t meant to mortally wound. Given the blood on the blade and the small amount on the floors…” Connor shrugs with confident ease, “It isn’t Cole’s blood and it’s fresh. They’re very likely still in the city if not—”

A child’s shriek bellows into the room from the courtyard below followed by a deep, angry grunt of pain. Without hesitation, Connor dashes off with Henry hot on his heels. Although he knows the hallway isn’t long, each step feels woefully inadequate for delivering him to Cole. Bursting out of a service door, Connor skids to a sideways halt on one foot while Henry does his best not to collide into him.

It takes him a moment to understand what he’s seeing as his eyes adjust to the evening sky. Torches illuminate walkways, casting long shadows of the odd spectacle before him. Connor lets out a huffing sound that borders on a laugh as he jogs forward, his stride exuding nonchalance.

“Get this…rapscallion…off me,” an unfamiliar voice grunts out as he tries to protect his face from Cole’s fists. A small gash shows through the man’s shirtsleeve and a bit of blood oozes through the fine fabric. Henry startles when he takes in the stranger’s appearance. Fine clothes, even finer shoes and—

“Oh, no,” Henry groans, running his hand down his face when he spies a small circlet laying near the unknown man’s feet. Glancing back up again, he tries to get a look at the man’s face still shielded behind his arms. If he were a gambling man, he’d say the stranger looks a great deal like—

“Brother!” Connor cries out, not bothering to contain his mirth. “You should have written. I could’ve prepared a proper welcome for you.” Despite the laugh lines around his eyes, Henry hears the steel in his tone. Connor truly hadn’t been expecting a family visit and he doesn’t appreciate the surprise.

Cole, for his part, doesn’t cease pummeling the man as best he can, hopping about him more irritating and persistent than a flea. Connor’s hand on his shoulder gives him pause as if he only just noticed his would-be rescuers.

“Connor! I caught him! He was sneaking and—,”

“I was _not_ ,” the heir to the Wellington throne vehemently denies, looking a great deal more like a servant caught thieving than royalty.

Cole continues on undeterred, “He was walking around without a candle. He bumped into my door—I heard him, he swore real bad—and I got him!”

Connor squats down, amusement winning the battle for his face for the time being, “You certainly did, Cole. This ruffian you’ve apprehended, however, happens to be my brother. I think we can grant him a small reprieve for the time being.”

Evidently mollified, Cole takes off in Henry’s direction, “Did you see? I walloped him with my book first so I could get my sword and he ran away. I couldn’t let him get away!” Henry’s terror trickles out of him slowly as he takes in Cole’s appearance. He’s unharmed and his heart unclenches. Looking up at the bedraggled prince, Henry notices a knot blooming on the man’s forehead.

“Cole,” he begins slowly, uncertain of how to proceed. He can’t have Cole running off to play the hero again. Not when a very real threat looms. “Next time you hear a prowler in the night, I want you to come get me or Connor, ok?”

Connor’s head turns a fraction in Henry’s direction at the mention of his name, but he remains near his brother. Cole frowns but agrees and Henry wonders about the costs and logistics of keeping a guard near Cole’s room at all times—a problem to solve later.

“Your Highness,” Henry begins with a bow, “my humble apologies. We’re on high alert due to certain threats.” Richard appears on the verge of complaint, no doubt at being assaulted by an overeager tween with a wooden sword.

Bypassing it entirely, Henry redirects the conversation, “Is there a reason you arrived unannounced and felt the need to trespass in the dark? I assure you, you would’ve received a formal and more pleasant welcome if you’d gone through natural channels.”

Connor smirks, clearly pleased that Henry is giving the prince no quarter. Somewhat chagrinned, the prince rearranges his clothes as best he can. The effect is a slightly less rumpled royal.

“Lord Anderson,” Richard begins with a slight bow, “I’ve been trying to write to Connor for weeks.” Henry’s eyes cut across to Connor, digesting his surprised face. Not hiding the information then. “Am I to understand you’ve not received them?” He directs the question at his brother and Connor shakes his head.

“Ah, well. Mother was concerned you were being…mistreated.” Connor frowns, ready to argue.

“So she sends her heir? Madam Stern is no fool. She wouldn’t risk your neck to save an abdicator.” Both brothers wince at Henry’s harsh words. Richard’s cheeks tinge pink and Henry is almost certain the Queen of Wellington has no idea where her son is standing at the moment.

Realizing small ears are listening to big discussions, Henry motion at Ben. Tired and grumpy, Ben leads Cole back to his room while he and the princes retire to his study. Stopping in to double check that Cole is safely tucked in bed, he can hear Connor and Richard arguing before he opens the doors.

“Will you two keep it dow—” the words shrivel up on his tongue as he takes in the strange sight of Connor holding his brother in a headlock.

“You complete and utter tit, Richard!” Connor shouts next to his brother’s purpling face. “What in the hell were you thinking?”

Shutting the door behind him, Henry approaches with his hands clasped behind his back, “I somehow doubt he can offer much insight if you pop his head off.” Connor startles when Henry speaks then glances sheepishly down at his brother. Shoving him away, Richard rises looking distinctly worse for the wear.

“Mother doesn’t know he’s here,” Connor begins, shooting Richard a venomous glare. “Which means she’ll assume the absolute worst. You _know_ she will.”

Richard rolls his eyes at his brother, “If you’d have let me finish, you’d know she will know my whereabouts soon enough. I neglected to inform her I was leaving. I left her a note. When she’s done panicking, she’ll think to toss my room.”

Connor grumbles but accepts the explanation. Henry continues to watch them both, nonplussed. If it weren’t for the eyes, it would be difficult to tell them apart. Richard was a hair taller and broader, but it wasn’t something he’d noticed until they were side by side.

“Why are you here?” Henry asks the blunt question, a headache growing at his temples. He’s beginning to regret the cognac.

“I told you, I’ve been trying to write Connor for quite some time. When it became clear he wasn’t receiving my letters, I knew I had to do something.” Connor eyes his brother warily but offers no interruption.

“And what was so urgent?” Henry asks, attempting to keep the conversation on track.

“Connor wrote to me about your concerns for young Cole. My network looked into it and we found nothing. Connor seemed so sure in his missives, I thought his silence was petulance at first.” Connor’s mouth opens in outrage, but Henry holds up a hand to quiet him.

“What do you mean you found nothing? I’ve received more than a handful of letters. Flint has more than enough provocation and—”

“May I see the letters?” Henry frowns, but shuffles through papers on his desk all the same. It couldn’t hurt, after all, to have a fresh pair of eyes look them over.

Ignoring the words, Richard flips it over in favor of squinting at the split seal. He smiles with more teeth than is strictly comforting, “It’s as I thought. A forgery.”

“What?” Connor snaps, yanking the paper from Richard’s grip, “How can you tell?”

“I’ve had weeks to research my suspicions. Our contacts in Flint… _procured_ a seal from the mayor. I’ve been studying it on the voyage here. This is a decent replica, but it’s missing several imperfections.”

Connor swears under his breath and Henry’s irritation reaches its tipping point, “Can either of you explain what in the hottest of hells is going on? Is Cole in danger or not?”

For once, Connor appears at a loss for answers, “I’m sorry, Henry. I don’t know where these missives originated. I don’t know—”

“I think I do,” Richard says smugly and Henry feels the urge to pick up where Connor left off with the headlock. Catching Henry’s glower, Richard is quick to offer what he knows, “Someone knows what you were up to, Connor, when you were off playing pirate.”

Both Connor and Henry go still at the information, “Does mother kno—”

“Not that I can tell,” Richard says soothingly. “I didn’t even know until all the problems with the mail started. Someone from your crew who knew your connections and how to imitate their writing style is my best guess. Someone smart or who knows smart people.”

“Son of a bitch,” Connor swears vehemently. “I told Markus he’d be a liability. I _told_ him, but no. He swore it would be fine, swore we could bring him along.”

“Who?” Henry asks impatiently. Connor’s crew had been large, but none of his inner circle had struck him as untrustworthy. Then again, they were all pirates and trust only went so far.

“Leo,” Connor’s mouth twists around the name as if he’s bitten into a lemon. “I’m the problem child in my family. In Markus’ family? It’s Leo.”

Not any wiser for hearing the name, Henry huffs in irritation, “Is he a threat to Cole?”

Richard’s face pinches into an apologetic grimace, “That, I don’t know. I don’t understand this Leo’s motives, to be frank. I intercepted one anonymous letter and he sounded utterly insane.”

Connor’s head snaps to his brother, “Did you bring it with you?”

“Of course,” Richard nods, gesturing vaguely behind him. “In my bags on the ship.”

Connor scowls at the night sky and rubs at his eyes, “It’s late and we’ll all be useless tomorrow if we don’t get sleep. I’ll look at the letter at first light. There might be something in it that I recognize.”

Agreeing that there’s nothing more to be gained this night, Henry leads Richard to a spare room, “It’s likely not up to your standards, your Highness. I wasn’t expecting royal visitors.”

Richard waves him off, “It’s a bed and it’s clean; that’s more than my bunk on the ship to here could claim.” With a nod, Henry takes his leave and Richard latches the door from the other side.

Tiptoeing up the hall, Henry peeks into Cole’s room once more. He’s sprawled sideways on his bed, still clutching his sword against would-be intruders.

Thinking of sinking into the plush feather mattress in his own room, Henry’s energy flags. It seems like his bath was days ago rather than a few hours. The door feels heavy as he pulls it wide and he’s half out of his robe when Connor speaks, “I thought you might want to finish our discussion?”

Henry whirls, his arm striking out in surprise. Connor manages to block it.

“Sorry,” he mutters as a dusting of a flush blooms across his cheeks, “I didn’t realize you were in here. Again.” His tone makes it clear that, no, he does not wish to continue their conversation. With his terror for Cole subsiding, Connor’s unintended confession creeps back in bringing a mix of confusing emotions along with it. 

Connor acts as if he hadn’t heard him, picking up where their conversation had left off, “That wasn’t how I intended to tell you.” His words are quiet, fragile.

With the last bits of adrenaline draining away, Henry doesn’t have the strength to argue, “It’s fine, Con—”

“It’s not, Henry. Nothing about this is fine,” Henry assumes Connor means the awkward tension of their past that hovers in the background of their every interaction, but then—

“I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen to you or to Cole. It was stupid of me to assume I could run from my problems. You’d think I would’ve learned that lesson the first time around.” The politics across the sea in Wellington, the pirating, and the messy aftermath of Connor’s decisions fill the room like humidity. Henry can’t breathe without the brackish taste of it flooding his mouth.

Henry can’t seem to get his tongue to cooperate with his mind. He knows he should say something, but what? Everything Connor said is true; Connor’s baggage has followed him across the sea and it’s creating security concerns for Cole.

Henry knows Connor’s to blame. He just wishes Connor didn’t look so damn wounded about it. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he sighs, “It’s not like you did it on purpose. Besides, without you, I wouldn’t have Cole in the first place.”

Connor gives a half-hearted one-shoulder shrug, “Even so; after I deal with Leo, I think it would be best if I left. Whatever there was between us—I had hoped…it doesn’t matter.” Connor rises without looking at Henry. He can hear the pain in his voice and it’s several moments before he understands what Connor’s saying.

 _No_ , a firm voice cries out in the background of his mind.

Henry hears himself speak, “If you think that’s what’s best.”

 _No, no, no_.

“For Cole,” Connor clarifies, his eyes urging, pleading with Henry.

His mouth continues talking without consulting his consciousness first, “His safety is paramount. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him from harm.” Connor’s face crumples into miserable folds and he looks to the ceiling rather than at Henry.

“Very well, then,” his voice cracks and he clears his throat to cover it, “I’m glad you…agree.” With a whispered _goodnight,_ he turns on his heel and takes large strides toward the door. If he were moving any faster, he’d be running.

_What are you doing? Stop him!_

Henry’s feet won’t move. His lips remain locked, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight at the sound of the closing door.

Connor will leave. Henry will be free of his tormenting presence. Henry can move on with his life. Cole will be safe. Cole will be—

Heartbroken.

He loves Connor. Almost as much as Henry does and—

Henry can’t breathe. It hurts too much as the crushing realization of what he just agreed to, what he just endorsed, threatens to cave in his chest.

He’s halfway down the hall before he realizes where he’s headed. Connor’s bedroom door is shut, but it’s not locked against him. His hand hovers over the knob like a moth drawn to candle about to extinguish.

He can hear a soft sound coming from inside like the whisper of curtains shifting in an open window. Before he can let doubt worm its way any further into his skull, he yanks the door wide. As he suspected, Connor stands framed by stars and moonlight. A slight breeze disturbs his hair; it does nothing to soften the sharp angles of his body.

He’s rigid and trying to remain steadfast against the anguish endeavoring to break his façade. Henry can see old, familiar walls rising around him and he rushes Connor before he can seal himself away. Large hands find angular shoulders, and a shout of shock and alarm dies on Connor’s lips when he sees who’s entered his room unannounced.

They stand silent and unsure. Henry’s feet had carried him this far, but he didn’t have a plan for what comes after. Connor’s chest rises and falls too rapidly and his eyes shine too brightly in the dark. He blinks, and Henry watches a droplet wink in the candlelit room before it vanishes into darkness somewhere around their knees.

 _He’s crying_.

Something snaps at the sight of it and Henry can feel his defenses falling against a torrent of tightly bound emotion. Connor’s lips find his and he tastes exactly like Henry remembers. His mouth is hot and hungry and Henry’s on the verge of letting Connor devour him when Connor breaks the kiss. He nestles his face in the crook of Henry’s neck, whispering his name like a wish come true.

He isn’t sure how long they stood there like that or when they’d found their way to bed. There’s much to discuss, but exhaustion stands at the head of the queue, demanding his attention. Sleep drags at his eyes as Connor sinks onto the mattress beside him. He murmurs _I missed this_ into the flesh of Henry’s chest as fatigue wraps them together in its embrace.

He awakes the next morning to sunlight streaming into the room at the wrong angle, striking against his eyelids. Before his brain catches up to the night before, he realizes he’s trapped under a human blanket of limbs.

“Connor,” he tries to nudge him, but Connor murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like _no_ and wraps himself more firmly around Henry’s torso. With an exasperated sigh, Henry feels a surge of fondness at the familiarity of the embrace.

It takes several minutes to convince Connor to move. Henry isn’t feeling much like a spring chicken after his interrupted and limited sleep from the night before, but lounging in bed isn’t on the day’s agenda. Hopping into one of his boots, Connor grumbles, “This letter better have some damn good information in it. Waking me up at the crack of—”

“Noon?” Henry supplies as they make their way toward the dining hall. Connor scowls at him and flumps with ill grace into a chair to shovel porridge into his mouth.

Richard, who’d apparently been awake for much longer than they had, cuts his eyes across at Connor, “Sleeping in today, are we?”

“Shut up, Richard,” Connor grumbles with poorly concealed irritation. A giggle from beneath the table makes Henry startle and slop some coffee onto the crisp white linens. With a wryly arched eyebrow, Henry hooks the cloth to peer under the table.

“Cole,” he begins in a mock-admonishing tone, “what have I told you about spying on princely guests?” Cole grins before rocketing out from under the table. Richard looks shocked while Connor smiles for the first time since getting out of bed against his will.

“The walls have ears,” Henry quips drolly.

“Indeed,” is Richard’s prim response as he hands a scroll out to Connor. “This is the letter. May you have more luck deciphering it than—”

Connor stands abruptly, “I know where he is.” He just as suddenly sinks back into the chair, “I have to tell Markus.” Connor looks ill at the thought.

“Is that going to be a problem? Do you know where to find him?” Henry queries and Connor nods.

“Finding him won’t be the issue. I can’t imagine he’ll take kindly to the notion that his brother absconded with _The Jericho_ or what he’s been doing with her since our parting.” Connor rises, weary from lack of sleep and from what he has to do.

A hundred questions spring into Henry’s mind, all of them competing for attention, “ _The Jeric—_ Why would Mark—The hell?”

A hint of a roguish smile ghosts across Connor’s face, “ _The Jericho_ was never mine; she was always Markus’ vessel. Apparently, his dear brother has seen fit to take her to sea once more.”

“And _how_ exactly do you know where this Leo is?” Henry asks, irritation at having to pull answers out of Connor growing with each inquiry.

There’s no mistaking the Cheshire grin on Connor’s face this time, “Because the dolt is still using the same coding system. He’s either a fool or he wanted to be found.” Connor snorts at himself, “Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s what he’s after.”

“What?” Henry asks blankly, not following Connor’s logic.

“Attention,” Connor says simply before striding toward the door with toast in hand. Glancing back over his shoulder, Connor eyes Richard, “You stay here. Can’t have you risking your neck or mother’s fingers will be itching to wrap around mine.”

Richard splutters, but ultimately acquiesces. Even Henry can tell Richard isn’t one to get his hands dirty. From the fussy setting of his cravat to the polish on his shoes, every inch of him screams pristine elegance. He won’t want blood on his hands—mostly because the ruffles encircling his wrists are pure white.

Henry hopes Cole will agree to remain behind so easily, but he has his doubts. In the end, Ben has to threaten to sit on him until Henry pulls out of the harbor to get the boy to stop wheedling to come along. Despite conceding the point, Henry still finds Cole trying to stow away among his luggage.

He tries his best to admonish the boy, but his bottom lip quivers and he whispers something just within Henry’s range of hearing, “But what if you don’t come back?”

Henry’s heart rends, dropping him to his knees. Pulling Cole into an embrace, he says quietly, “I promise you. I’ll come back.”

“Connor too?” His little voice strains to the point of fracturing and Henry gives him an extra squeeze.

“Connor too,” he promises. Glancing above Cole’s head, he makes eye contact with the prince in question. Connor gives him a nod, his expression all business. Now isn’t the time to address their past or their future—not when rogues still persist in dogging them.

Even so, Connor ruffles Cole’s hair before giving him a wink, “If you behave for Ben, I’ll teach you how to sweep your enemy’s feet out from under them when I return.”

Henry’s mouth opens in irritation and Connor gives him a wicked grin, “I assure you, it’s a completely legal tactic.”

“I doubt it,” Henry mutters, but Cole brightens at the promise.

Standing at the bow of the ship, Henry watches Cole’s face grow smaller and smaller until it’s nothing more than a speck on the landscape. Connor takes his place beside him; his fingers brush feather soft against Henry’s in solidarity.

When the horizon vanishes into a glittering arc of ocean, Henry tears his eyes away, “So. To Markus?”

“To Markus,” Connor agrees, “then to Leo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	7. Day 254 - ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s so much of us here,” Connor sighs out the words and Henry can’t untwine the longing from the regret in his tone. He sits in the sand with a great deal more grace than Henry had shown.
> 
> Henry turns to eye Connor’s profile and he sees the mix of fondness and sadness war across his face. For Henry, it mostly just hurts, “That there is.”
> 
> __
> 
> The long-awaited conclusion for Pirate!Connor :D Thank you for your patience!

Henry’s first reaction to seeing Markus again is one of deep irritation, “You have _two_ eyes!”

Markus had smirked at his outrage before winking one green iris, “It was a cross to bear, I’ll grant you. That eyepatch did a number on my vision having it covered up so much. Still, Connor’s family would have located us within a fortnight if news of a pirate with mismatched eyes reached their shores.”

“So you’re from Wellington, then?” Henry asks, doing his best not to openly stare at the man’s eyes.

Markus nods, “I am, but I can tell from Connor’s pinched face that this isn’t a social call. I’m no more welcome back home than he is.”

Connor snorts and mutters an obvious disagreement under his breath and Henry is almost certain he hears him mention _Lord Simon_. Markus ignores him, “So what brings you to my new home away from home? Simon is away on business at the moment, but if Detroit is in need of assis—”

“It’s Leo,” Connor interjects, shoving the letter at Markus. It takes Markus no more time than it took Connor to suss out the hidden message. Unlike Connor, Markus is in disbelief.

“He wouldn’t—there has to be some explanation or-or…something,” he finishes lamely, clearly doubting his own eyes.

“It’s his handwriting, Markus. His sigil. He didn’t even bother to change the cod—” Markus’ hand flies up at Connor’s words as if he can violently waft them away from his ears.

Squinting at the paper, he sighs, “I know it is. I know it’s him. Father’s written me numerous times about rumors, but…I didn’t…”

“No one ever wants to believe the worst of their family. It’s normal, Markus,” Connor’s reaction to sharing the news with Markus is a great deal gentler than Henry anticipated. He’d forgotten how soft the man can be. 

With Simon away on business, it doesn’t take Markus long to settle things before he can depart, “Staff nonsense and the like. They’ll be fine without me for a while. Besides, everything’s been quiet here since Simon took charge.”

“So where are we going?” Henry asks the obvious question and Markus looks from Connor to Henry and back again.

“You didn’t tell him?” Henry’s nerves begin to fray at the edges at Markus’ tone, wondering what kind of trouble he’s walking into. Connor gives Markus a microscopic shake of his head.

“Oh, Christ,” Markus exhales, “well, I’ll just leave you two alone th—”

“You take the wheel,” the words are calm, but the command is unmistakable.

Markus rolls his eyes before taking over steering the ship, “You know, you’re a right pushy bastard when you want to be. Might be something to work on, Connor.”

Connor raises a one-fingered response in Markus’ general direction before gesturing for Henry to follow him down to the captain’s quarters. It’s more cramped than Connor’s study and bedroom had been on _The Jericho_ nor as furnished. Connor hadn’t had comfortable furniture, but he had a place for people to sit all the same. This cabin boasts a single bed and a desk with a wobbling chair.

Henry looks at Connor expectantly and Connor looks around the cabin as if it might offer him moral support.

“Where are we going?” He breathes out wearily and Connor makes a face as if steeling himself for a fight.

“An island,” he says, too coy and too calm.

“Connor, don’t make me drag it out of y—oh, you have got to be kidding,” realization hits Henry like a battering ram. “ _That_ island? _Our_ island?”

“Well, to be fair,” Connor begins in his trademark roguish manner, “it’s technically a pirate island. I’m certainly not the first captain to seek refuge there.”

Henry glares at Connor, unimpressed with his sidestepping. With a sigh, Connor capitulates, “Yes. That island. I’m not surprised; it’s easy to remain off the grid there. Not many legitimate ships sail near it given its reputation.”

“So what if another batch of pirates rolls in while we look for Leo?” Henry doesn’t much want a repeat performance as a captive; he doubts other pirates would be so keen on him as Connor is.  

“Most sail onto other ports. It’s a small island and not worth the fight unless you know for a fact that a rival crew has something you want. There isn’t enough land for maneuvering.” Henry doesn’t miss Connor’s use of _most_ and sends up a silent prayer that they only find Leo and his cohorts on the island when they dock.

The eerily empty berth sends a shiver of foreboding down Henry’s spine, “I thought you said he’d taken _The Jericho_?” He gazes down the shoreline as if the ship may materialize at any moment. Connor frowns and Markus rereads the intercepted letter for the hundredth time.

“He’s definitely here,” Markus mutters, but his frown line intensifies the longer he stares at the words on the paper.

Eventually, Connor pulls it from his hands, “Leo will show, Markus. You know he will. He can’t resist a captive audience.” Markus flinches at the words and Henry sees how badly they sting. Threats or no, Leo is still Markus’ family. Henry would feel bad for Markus if he didn’t want to punt his weasel brother across the ocean for dragging Cole into his scheming.

“I’ll take the cabin by the shore. I’ll hear him trying to moor his ship well before he has the time.” Markus turns on his heels and stomps off to a straw structure that Henry thinks is more along the lines of a shack than a cabin.

“That leaves us with this glorious abode,” Connor gestures to the building behind them and Henry’s feet cement in place. The memory of that structure is seared into his eyelids. He can conjure it at will, remembering every detail from the straw-stuffed mattress on the floor that likely needs new filling to the way Connor looked silhouetted in the doorway before he walked out of Henry’s life.

He’s halfway to a palm tree before he realizes he abruptly spun and walked away in high dudgeon.

“Henry!” Connor’s voice calls to him across a stretch of hot sand, but he doesn’t slow his stride or look back. The gaping wound of their history here flaps in the breeze, burning against the salt in the air. He sinks to a squat before falling back into a sit with a heavy thump.

When Connor catches up to him, he doesn’t flinch away from his touch, but he doesn’t look up at him either.

“There’s so much of us here,” Connor sighs out the words and Henry can’t untwine the longing from the regret in his tone. He sits in the sand with a great deal more grace than Henry had shown.

Henry turns to eye Connor’s profile and he sees the mix of fondness and sadness war across his face. For Henry, it mostly just hurts, “That there is.”

He doesn’t offer much else and Connor leans his shoulder into him by half a degree, unnoticeable to the naked eye but the touch warms him more than the sand beneath his feet does.

“Too much?” Connor asks the question already knowing the answer and Henry exhales irritation.

“No. And yes. This isn’t where I wanted to discuss…things.” It comes out flimsy and accompanied by a flopping motion with his hand.

Connor snags at it as if to examine his palm before pressing his thumbs into the meat of Henry’s hand, “It wasn’t my choice of venue either, but I wasn’t about to let Leo carry on like this when he’s been putting Cole’s name into ink.” Henry hears the angry steel of Connor’s voice and nods in agreement.

Connor’s fingers continue to move regardless of the uneasy silence that settles over them. Small amounts of stress ease out of Henry’s body at the gentle touch. Even with his concerns for Cole and his pain at being back at this place, Connor is able to play him like a familiar and cherished instrument.

Henry relaxes under his touch and lets his eyes fall shut. Between the limited sleep and hectic turns of events, exhaustion had crept up on him without his notice. It feels nice to drift for a moment—just a moment—and listen to the sounds of the ocean.

Of the waves unfurling like a hand beckoning to a lover only to curl back in an enticing gesture.

Of the breeze winding through the palm trees, rustling sharp blades high overhead.

Of a hand drawing back the hammer of a gun.

“Fancy seeing you here, Cap. I didn’t take you as a man who falls asleep on the job,” a vaguely familiar voice startles Henry into full consciousness. Connor’s fingers tense in warning against his palm. The dark-haired man sneers at the gesture.

“Still up to your old tricks then, eh? What didja promise this one? A romp in the captain’s quarters and a percentage of the loot?” The man pauses to leer at Henry, “Still waiting on the second half of that bargain, if yanno what I mean.” The man winks at him and cold fury lances through Henry’s veins. It’s only the heavily armed men flanking him that make him think twice about kicking at the man’s kneecaps.

The one man is dark and huge. With the sun at his back, his features disappear into shadow as Henry squints against the rays. The other is fair-skinned with brown hair cut close to his ears. Although much shorter than Henry, he’s of a size with the man issuing threats. A dark bruise along his jaw lends a round appearance to his face, making him look boyish despite the angry scowl marring the set of his lips.

“Charming as ever, Leo.” Connor moves to stand, but the man to Leo’s left draws his sword, pointing it at Connor’s face. Although not terribly outnumbered, they are woefully short on weapons. Henry knows Connor always has a small weapon on his person, but it’s not enough to risk a fight just yet.

“Where’s the money, you disgraceful hedge-born bastard.” If Leo’s had spit, the words would have burned with the amount of venom they carried.

For his part, Connor appears unfazed, “I may be in disgrace in Wellington, but I assure you my mother is more than noble and I was born on the right side of the blankets. Can you say the same?” Henry senses an insult that he isn’t following. Leo purpling in outrage confirms his suspicion.

“I’m a better son than that pathetic excuse of a first mate of yours. Where is my _brother_ , anyway? Ditch him, too, did you?” Henry can tell from Leo’s tone that he hasn’t discovered Markus’ presence on the island. He doesn’t give off the aura of someone who is a very good actor.

“You know me,” Connor remarks casually while examining his nails, “fucking my way across the sea, leaving a trail of abandoned lovers in my wake.”

Leo snarls at his words and Henry quietly wonders what game Connor is playing at. Poking at this loose cannon isn’t likely to end well for either of them.

“Connor,” he tries to mutter it quietly, but everyone’s eyes swivel to him as if he’d shouted it. Connor’s hand flies faster than thinking, catching Henry in the mouth. Henry falls silent more from shock than pain.

“If I want to hear your opinion, I’ll feed it to you. I don’t take kindly to backtalk from _captives_.” Henry’s mind races trying to catalog every interaction since waking into something logical. For one wild moment, he wonders if he’d dreamed up everything.

Eventually, he realizes Connor’s angle. He does his level best to transform his shock into simmering anger, channeling the emotions of his early days as an unwilling passenger on Connor’s ship. It’s a risky ploy and depends a great deal on how well Leo has kept up with current events. Henry has no idea how long Leo had served as crew aboard _The Jericho_ or when he departed. Given that he’s been gallivanting around at sea, odds were slightly in their favor that he hadn’t heard of Connor’s recent appointment to Henry’s staff.

Leo’s eyes narrow, darting between Henry and Connor, “You’re yanking my leg. This here is the mayor. He shook you somehow. He’s no captive.”

Keeping his face an angry mask of outrage, Henry lets Connor spin out whatever story he’s weaving for Leo, “I don’t give up treasure easily, Leo. You know that. The man is mine. I’m not one for _sharing_.”

Leo makes a disgusted face, clearly not wanting to delve into the particulars of Connor’s interest in Lord Henry Anderson. Despite his still tingling lips, Henry can’t help but think Connor was playing this terrible hand to the best of his ability.

“I don’t want to hear about who you choose to fuck; I gave you my answer on that matter at the start of all this mess.” Leo takes a tiny by telling step back from Connor and Henry’s collective boots.

Connor rolls his eyes, “Typical. Offer a man a job at his brother’s behest and he assumes you’re trying to sleep with him. Vanity, they name is Leo.”

Leo bristles and Henry wonders which part of Connor’s phrasing rankled him more—the implication that Connor finds Henry more attractive than Leo, that Leo is jealous of the fact, or that Connor was calling him names.

Leo’s finger slotting into place over the trigger sobers both men on the ground instantly, “Let me be clear, you pirate fuck. I don’t care where you stick your dick. Where is my fucking money?” The last three words come out punctuated as if each is its own sentence. Henry’s trepidation grows the longer Connor remains silent, apparently at a loss for how to subdue Leo without risking their lives.

After a moment that stretches several heartbeats too long, Connor deflates with a sigh, “Fine.”

Henry’s head whips around, urging Connor to meet his gaze. Connor’s eyes stubbornly look anywhere else. A cold fear prickles at Henry’s temples that has nothing to do with the man holding a gun at point-blank range.

“What?” Both Henry and Leo ask the question at the same time.

Connor chooses to address the man pointing a weapon at him, “I said _fine_.” He rises to his feet wearily as if every fiber of his being is resisting the action. Leo’s gun tracks with him, but his finger no longer rests threateningly against the trigger.

“Show me,” Leo shoves the barrel of the pistol into Connor’s spine and he stiffens before stumbling forward at the contact. Henry briefly considers if the entire world has gone mad until Leo snaps at one of his men to deal with him.

“Don’t kill him,” Leo mutters as the dark man reaches for his sword, “he’s the mayor for fuck’s sake. He’s worth more alive than dead.” Henry isn’t sure if he imagines the slight sag of relief in Connor’s shoulders or not.

He wants to trust Connor. He’s also let the man play him for a fool once before.

Memories of Cole’s shrieking laughter flood his mind to crash against his doubt. What kind of man could fake affection that well? What kind of monster could manipulate a child? And even if Connor was tricking him once more, what was the point?

No. He’s come this far. He has to place his trust in someone; it might as well be someone he loves.

They walk in silence, Connor at the lead with the rest of the men trailing behind like a line of wary ants. Leo, the small thug, Henry, and the other hired muscle bringing up the rear. Hot sand fades into gritty soil before they trek into densely planted palm trees. They continue further into the heart of the island until the dense canopy above cuts them off from all sounds of the sea.

“Where’s he taking us?” Henry hears one of the hired goons mutter to Leo. Leo responds with a wave of his gun and the man falls back into line, silent and tense.

It takes Henry another five minutes to realize one of Leo’s flunkies is _missing_. His attention was so focused on the man wielding the gun that he hadn’t bothered to pay much attention to the hulking mass that made up the tail of their meandering train.

Trying his best not to draw attention to the fact, Henry attempts to glance left and right without being obvious. His eyes dart to the farthest reaches of his peripherals without moving his head, but nothing sticks out as obvious to him.

Sweat inches down his neck as the island’s humidity soaks through his shirt without the ocean breeze to temper it. No twigs snap around them to signal stealthy feet. No leaves rustle to indicate a pursuer in the trees. The man is simply, completely gone.

Henry would assume it was Markus’ work if the idea wasn’t so absurd. The man would have made a shout of alarm at being taken or a cry of pain at being attacked. At the very least, he would have made a loud thump if he’d been knocked out and fallen to the ground. His silent vanishing act sends a dark shiver up Henry’s spine before it crawls across his scalp.

They plod on for the better part of half an hour, reducing Henry’s alarm into a constant hum of tense apprehension. Connor holds up a hand when they reach a wall of ivy and he turns to look down the length of Leo’s extended gun.

“Do you think this is a game, Connor?” Leo hisses into the heavy air between them, “I’ve shot men for less.”

Connor arches one supremely unconcerned eyebrow before sweeping an arm through the vines. A small, stooping passage comes into view. Henry eyes the space, well aware his bulk won’t fit into the gap. The remaining goon would have to wait with Henry out here while Leo goes in with Connor. Assuming, of course, that Leo somehow overlooked the loss of one of his compatriots.

Leo must realize this as well. Although Henry can only see the back of his greasy, dark head, he can hear the man’s scowl in his tone, “You think I’m going in there with you? Alone?”

Connor’s smile deepens, “Afraid of things that go _boo_ in the dark, Leo? I’m unarmed, remember?”

The moment Henry had been dreading unravels in slow motion like a spool of yarn rolling down the stairs. Leo’s eyes swivel from Connor to the string of men behind him. It takes him two blinks to notice one of their number is missing. It takes half a hitched breath for Connor to clock him over the head with a rock.

When Leo’s knees buckle, Henry does the only logical thing he can think of. He launches himself at the remaining armed man. He falls with absurd ease and a bizarrely high-pitched shout. All thoughts of pummeling his face wash away when the man rolls and covers his face in freight.

“Stop!” The man’s panicked yell dances across Henry’s ears in a delicate soprano and a suspicion begins to take root in his mind. Peeling back the pirate’s arm, Henry wipes a thumb at the bruise on his neck. The skin on Henry’s thumb comes away purplish brown.

Keeping his grip tight on the man’s forearm, Henry rumbles, quiet and dangerous, “Who are you?” He startles at Connor’s light touch on his shoulder.

“As much as I admire you leaping to my defense, you should probably stop straddling Kara. It might give Luther ideas. He’s big, even compared to you.” Connor mentioning the names jiggles a memory loose of two pirates dancing on the shore, a slight woman steering around a large man to the delight of their comrades.

Henry heaves a weary sigh and rises to his feet before offering the woman his hand, “Would someone be so kind as to tell me what in the hell is going on?”

“Had to draw him out,” Connor offers as if that explains everything.

“And Leo just happened to hire two pirates that were willing to blackmail him? And you just knew he wouldn’t shoot you in your smart mouth the minute your lips started moving?” Henry had hoped to come across as stern and commanding. Kara snickering behind him makes him feel more like a kept man fussing at his husband.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was never actually asleep on the beach.” Henry tries to be annoyed, but the sudden burst of adrenaline when he thought he had a fight on his hands has nowhere to go leaving a somnolent irritation in its wake. When Connor throws a wink in his general direction, Henry’s frustration melts into something with softer edges. Connor is endearing for an ex-pirate, Henry will give him that much.

“I was more worried you would recognize Luther and give away the ruse, to be honest. I tried to tell you as little as possible so your reactions would be genuine. I may have given up _The Jericho_ , but I treated my crew well enough to inspire ongoing loyalty. I was banking on Leo not being able to say the same.” When Henry continues to give Connor a skeptical look, he sighs, “Well, that and Markus’ letter to Luther.”

Henry barks out a loud _Ha!_ at that and Connor scowls, “It doesn’t hurt to have friends or connections.”

“Or a ship?” Markus calls from somewhere within the cave, “Can I come out now? I’m assuming you’ve incapacitated him if you’re talking about him like he’s a lumpy potato.”

“Lumpy being the operative word,” Luther murmurs while examining the swelling on Leo’s head. At a tight look from Markus, Luther murmurs in a soothing, resonant bass-baritone, “He’ll live, Markus, but he’ll wake up with a hell of a headache.”

Markus nods as he eyes his half-brother, “Where is my ship he saw fit to abscond with?”

The corner of Luther’s mouth twitches but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes, “Bastard anchored out at sea. Made us row him all the way in like royalty.”

Connor snickers as he gestures with a flippant hand, “See, Henry. Even I never stooped so low as to make my crew ferry me around. _Loyalty_.” With his smug grin aimed at Henry, he misses Luther’s thinning mouth and arched eyebrow.

“Yes,” the big man grumbles as he shoulders Leo, “you were the easiest prince I’ve ever had to work for. Only slightly more fussy than a French poodle.”

Connor stares at Luther in shock before his eyes narrow into a glare pointed in the direction of Leo’s swaying head, “Somebody’s been running his mouth.”

“Not as much as you think,” Luther calls over his free shoulder as he takes the lead back to shore. “He clammed up after I told him giving away enemy secrets to anyone who asks was like giving away money for free.”

“Blackmail,” Henry murmurs, but Luther hears him all the same and nods.

“He’s been writing about your boy ever since. He’s convinced there’s treasure and that Connor scammed him out of his due. He thought if he put a fire under you, you might offer up what you know about Connor. He hasn’t kept up with Connor’s latest movements, you see.” Luther shimmies Leo into a more comfortable position and his head lolls nauseatingly. Henry tries not to watch it rolling from side to side as they make their way back to the huts.

“I imagine he had his hands full stealing _The Jericho_. I’m still not sure how he pulled it off.” Henry sees the way Connor’s eyes dart from the unconscious Leo to Markus.

Markus frowns and kicks at a rock on the path, “It wouldn’t have been hard. He knew where I moored her. I don’t check very often anymore. Not since—” His mouth clamps down and both men are careful to avoid accusing the other of laxness.

“Regardless, we have to deal with him.” Henry gives Connor an alarmed look, which Connor ignores, “Thoughts, Markus?”

Markus’ mouth sets in a grim smile, “Oh, _plenty_. I’m sure father would _love_ to know what Leo’s been getting up to.”

“Hate to poke holes in your plans,” Henry interjects seeing as no one has asked for his opinion yet, “but can you afford to throw stones?”

Markus meets Henry’s gaze without concern, “There is one significant detail that separates Leo and I. I know how to cover my tracks.” When Henry emits an incredulous harrumph, Markus smiles, “Father thinks my money is from my art. He’s not entirely wrong.”

“Art?” Henry asks, nonplussed.

“The mural in your bedroom,” Connor’s eyes grow darker as he speaks, “It’s a Manfred.”

Henry chokes in surprise, “Your _that_ Markus?”

Markus grins at Henry’s astonishment, “One and the same. Leo has nothing on me. I’ve never signed a single document or left a paper trail in my wake. My wayward brother on the other hand…” Markus pulls the numerous letters threatening Cole—all in Leo’s distinguishing handwriting.

“Blackmailing the blackmailer then.” Henry nods, catching up to their logic.

“Essentially,” Markus agrees. “I’d rather not tell father at all, but we’ll see how much Leo is willing to bend when he wakes up.”

By the time they reach the sandy shores, Leo’s broken out in a fine sheen of sweat. Luther sets him down with greater care than Henry expected on a bed in one of the huts furthest from the sea, “He’s worse than I thought.”

The lines around Markus’ mouth grow heavy with concern and Connor has the good graces to look chagrinned, “I hit him quite hard. We needed him incapacitated.”

Luther nods, “He’ll be fine in the end, but I don’t think we should take him to the ship for a few more hours at least. He’ll be nauseous. I don’t feel like cleaning up vomit; do any of you?”

Everyone makes general sounds of disgust before agreeing. Connor glances at the huts dotting the shores, “We can stand to be away for a little while longer. I don’t think anyone will remark on Lord Anderson’s absence just yet.”

Henry blinks in surprise. He hadn’t thought about appearances. He was most concerned about Cole and dousing whatever threat was directed at him.

Kara speaking shakes Henry out of his reverie, “If it’s all the same to all of you, I need to get out of this getup. These bindings are making it hard to breathe.”

She gestures at her chest and Henry flushes when he realizes he’s looking at the woman’s breasts or where they should be at any rate. Evidently, she’d gone to great lengths to play her part in the ruse.

Connor points her in the direction of an empty hut, “I can’t guarantee the freshness of the bedding, but they’re private.”

She bobs her head in thanks before snagging Luther by the hand, “Help me with this?” She gives him a hungry look and Luther shifts under her predatory gaze. Even so, he offers no resistance to her pull.

She sets off for the last hut and Markus transfers his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably, “I’m going to stay with Leo. Someone should be here when he wakes up.”

“Right,” Connor squints out at the sea as if trying to spot _The Jericho_ , “Restrain him if you think he’ll put up a fight. Henry and I are going—”

“For a walk,” Henry interrupts and both men shoot him surprised looks. Connor shrugs and Markus turns to deal with his brother.

Once out of earshot, Connor murmurs, “Something you wanted to talk about in private?”

“I’m not interested in _talking_ ,” Henry emphasizes the last word and Connor arches his scarred brow. The adrenaline that had been coursing through Henry’s veins since their false ambush demanded action. He needs to do something with the thrum of unanswered hormones still jolting from limb to limb. With the threats against Cole essentially dealt with, there’s only one avenue his body seems interested in exploring.

Picking up on Henry’s tone, Connor steps closer to Henry than is strictly innocent in intent, “Is that so?”

“It occurs to me,” Henry’s voice is hushed and heavy, “that we haven’t truly reconciled yet.”

“We haven’t?” Connor says with a coy smile. His fingertips grazing Henry’s chest shatter the illusion of innocence. Henry shakes his head, puffing into the light touch. Connor gropes him greedily like a man who’s denied himself simple pleasures for too long.

Connor rocks his hips against Henry’s with enough force to unbalance him. Connor leans with him until Henry’s pressed between the wall of the dwelling and Connor’s trim waist. His fingers tense into the meat of Henry’s chest as dark eyes meet an equally sultry azure gaze, “We should do something about that.”

While their trip to the hot springs isn’t exactly stealthy, no one is bothering with propriety. The island is home to pirates and thieves; modesty doesn’t have much room to take root. Henry flushes when Markus turns his head to look purposefully in the other direction. Everyone can hear the soft cries coming from where Luther and Kara disappeared to hours earlier.

Emboldened, Henry links hands with Connor. What he said was true; he’s not interested in talking. He knows there is much they need to discuss to truly mend the rift between them, but there will be plenty of time for that back home. Once back to reality, there won’t be moments like this where Henry can lay himself bare for Connor to consume. Social mores will make intimacy a challenge; not taking advantage of the near-empty island would be a tragic waste.

They’re halfway to their destination when Henry comes to a halt, “Damn it all.” Connor peers over his shoulder at Henry with a questioning gaze. Henry growls in frustration, “I didn’t think—didn’t plan—for this to happen.”

To his surprise, Connor grins while hefting his shoulder, jostling items in his satchel, “I did.”

In their time apart, Henry had grown back some of the shyness Connor had spent months peeling away. He’d forgotten how hotly he could burn under his gaze. He may have started this excursion, but Connor was clearly going to be the one to finish it.

Granting him a small bit of compassion, Connor dials back the intensity of his stare, “As Luther pointed out, I can get a bit particular when at sea. My time aboard _The Jericho_ taught me the value of packing toiletries.” Henry huffs out a soft laugh before choking on it when Connor continues, “I also thought it might aid me in my endeavor of taking you apart.”

“Wh-What?” Henry heard him perfectly well, but he’s buying himself time to find enough air to breathe. It had been his intention to bed Connor, but being the singular focus of Connor’s desires was threatening to overwhelm him before they even got started.

As if he hadn’t been perfectly clear, Connor leans closer, “One finger at a time, Lord Anderson. You will shatter for me.”

Henry’s mouth goes dry as Connor’s words swell his semi-erect length into embarrassing hardness. If Connor notices, he mercifully doesn’t comment. Instead, he gently pulls Henry back into motion, leading them both to the water.

The minute they’re sure of their relative privacy, Connor is on Henry as if he’s attempting to make up for the entirety of their time apart in a matter of minutes. Henry’s arms sneak under Connor’s loose shirt, seeking out moles he knows are hiding there. It isn’t long before sunlight bathes naked skin. Before Henry can take more than two steps toward the inviting warmth of the pools, Connor hooks a slender pinky around Henry’s slightly larger one, tugging him close.

“I missed this,” Connor practically melts his body against Henry’s form, groping at his backside as he does.

Henry snorts out a fond sound halfway between amusement and exasperation, “My embrace or...?”

Henry shifts beneath Connor’s grip and the man grins, “Can you fault me for wanting to butter your biscuit on both sides?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Henry huffs back, mildly embarrassed at the long-disused association between Henry and biscuits, “seeing as you’re a springy asparagus.” The words come out harsher and a great deal more unkind than Henry intended. He expects Connor to pull away, hurt or worse.

He does not anticipate Connor pushing him roughly against a tree or yanking his face down by his beard for a searing kiss. By the time Connor releases his lips, Henry dazedly wonders if they’re blistered from the heat of it.

Connor’s fingers snaking up his scalp to lock into his hair snags at his attention. Nosing at Henry’s ear, Connor murmurs with licentious intent, “The mouth on you, my Lord. It’s almost like you forget what my _asparagus_ can do to you.” Henry hears the emphasis and knows Connor isn’t going to let that slight go anytime soon.

“Connor,” Henry tries to appease him, recognizing his imminent wrecking if he doesn’t smooth Connor’s ruffled feathers into a more comfortable position. “I didn’t mean—“

In no mood to be mollified, Connor presses on, “Or how I can take you apart.” Henry groans as Connor undulates his hips in a slow roll, pressing against Henry’s growing arousal from its thick root to its already leaking head.

Heat creeps up his neck and Connor drags his teeth along the darkening demarcation of Henry’s blush. Breaking away to nibble at a lobe, Connor’s voice caresses Henry’s ear with sinister, sensual intent, “If I wasn’t so intent on having you—all of you—I’d have you whimpering on your back, crumbling around one finger, coming without once touching your magnificent cock.”

Connor pulls back to meet Henry’s wild, wide-eyed expression, evidently pleased by the warring emotions of arousal, embarrassment, and a hint of regret on Henry’s face.

“Now,” Connor leans in again, kissing Henry softer this time, “are you quite done calling me names or should I make good on my promise?”

Henry could point out that Connor started it, that he knew Henry didn’t care for his biscuit nonsense, but all of the blood that usually operated his brain had relocated to his groin.

Framing Connor’s face between his considerable palms, Henry presses an apology to his lips and seeks forgiveness with a slip of his tongue. Connor answers in kind, wrapping a possessive hand around Henry’s girth as the large man breaks away to pant his answer, “Quite done.”

Connor’s smile softens at the edges, less predatory and more indulgent. Before he can speak, Henry mumbles, still a touch out of breath, “I want to have you. I want you inside me. All of you.”

Connor watches him for one long moment, an unreadable look on his face. Uncertainty tries to edge in around Henry’s arousal until he splutters, “What?”

“I was just remembering,” Connor replies before pulling them back in motion toward the pools.

Henry sees the bait, but he’s never been able to resist Connor’s brand of charm, “Remembering what?”

Connor’s mouth tilts into a lopsided grin as he steps into the steaming water, “How vocal and demanding you can be.”

For once, Henry doesn’t flush or feel the creep of embarrassment surrounding his desires. Taking Connor’s hand more firmly in his own, his reply rolls off his tongue before finding Connor’s mouth, “I know what I want.”

There was a time when Henry wouldn’t have been able to say as much. Connor knows better than to take it for granted. It’s a leisurely kiss, a relearning of bodies and preferences, an assuaging of hurt feelings and making up for lost time. Without frequent swordplay, Henry’s stomach had softened once more. Connor’s fingers dance over the swells of Henry’s body, rememorizing favorite dips and valleys.

He’d prefer to have Henry on his back or to have his thick thighs straddle him to be able to watch his face, but the pools don’t allow for much in the way of creativity. Pressing his chest to the curve of Henry’s spine, Connor’s fingers drift to caress at Henry’s ruddy sac before smearing oils up the sensitive stretch of skin approaching Henry’s hole.

Connor takes his time, intending to tease him open slowly. He’s unprepared for Henry’s impatience.

“You can do better than that,” Connor’s hand goes still for a moment as he meets Henry’s liquid gaze peering back at him over the rise of his shoulder. Connor hadn’t forgotten how demanding Henry could be in bed so much as he’d suppressed how much it affected him during their time apart. Gaze never wavering, he slips in a second finger to join the first. Working from vivid memories, Connor probes firmly and Henry’s eyes close with a groan as his hips dip to chase sensation.  

Connor tries to regain some semblance of control, but a needy Henry is a heady distraction, “Henry, I—”

Henry interrupts him, his voice rough, “What did I say about the talking?”

Connor arches an eyebrow behind Henry’s back. If he wanted it fast and rough, Connor was more than capable of delivering.

He leans in to nip at the shell of Henry’s ear before biting into the crook of his neck a touch harder than necessary. Working his fingers in rapid succession, the lewd squelching sounds would normally be enough to cover Henry’s body in a beet red flush from the tip of his cock to the cracks of his toes. As it stands, pent up longing, anger, and desire coalesce until pure lust sings through Henry’s veins.

Connor’s on the verge of a witty quip along the lines of _be careful what you wish for_ when Henry exhales a soft, “Finally.” It’s quiet enough that Connor wonders if Henry meant for him to hear it at all and his heart fractures.

Knowing how badly he’d hurt this man, finding themselves here despite his deception, Connor decides to spend every moment he has with Henry doing his best to deserve his forgiveness. The frantic movements of his fingers slow, replaced by the gentle press of his cockhead. Henry’s breathing becomes harsh and ragged. His rigid arms buckles at the wrists, sending him to his elbows by Connor’s third thrust.

“Touch me,” Henry’s request comes out husky and heavy with arousal. Connor reaches wildly to comply; he’d forgotten the overwhelming heat, the mind-warping pleasure, of sinking into Henry. He wonders if Henry’s body was attempting to devour his cock with as much fervor as Connor is summoning to piston into him again and again.

The water of the muggy pool sloshes around Connor’s knees as he bucks at an angle that pulls a strangled bellow from Henry’s chest. Changing his stance, he thrusts relentlessly, thighs pounding into the meaty flesh of Henry’s backside. They redden rapidly from the impact and Connor can’t help but squeeze at one of the undulating globes.

 _Biscuits_ he thinks to himself with a smile.

“I love you,” he whispers as he presses his face into Henry’s shoulder blade. Henry comes with a surprised shout and Connor can’t be certain if Henry heard him or if it was coincidental timing.

Henry makes a sound bordering on a whine as he collapses heavily over the edge of the pool, his body jerking with Connor’s continuing thrusts.

“Just a little longer, love,” Connor pets Henry’s hair and strokes his spine.

Henry nods and it’s enough to unravel Connor’s composure. Henry’s willingness, how easily and completely he surrenders, triggers Connor’s orgasm like a shot. He’s vaguely aware of saying Henry’s name or maybe he shouted it. Maybe birds startled out of nearby trees or maybe Connor imagined it. It doesn’t matter. In that moment, there is only him, Henry, and the black rippling edges of his consciousness as his release spirals up the length of his shaft before he goes tumbling over the edge.

Henry grows quiet and sleepy during the cooldown as they wash away what evidence they can of their frantic coupling. A red mark persists on Henry’s neck and Connor doesn’t feel like spoiling the mood by telling him. Instead, he massages salt from Henry’s scalp and runs his fingers wherever his heart guides them.

By the time they make it back to the modest dwellings on the shore, familiar sails ripple in view. Evidently, enough time had passed that Luther had pronounced Leo well enough to travel.

“ _The Jericho_ ,” Connor breathes the words and anticipation shivers along his skin. Henry can’t help but marvel at his stamina. He wants nothing more than to go to sleep and not wake up until his limbs regain full feeling.

“You miss it,” Markus’ voice cleaves between them and Henry side steps to let the man approach.

Connor tears his eyes away from the vessel, but his expression is more nostalgic than one of longing, “Not enough to man the helm again.”

Relief Henry didn’t know he needed floods his veins at the words even as Markus snorts, “Connor, I can count on one hand how many times you actually sailed her.”

Connor shrugs, “Semantics.”

Before Markus can needle him further, Connor begins pestering him about Leo. Markus assures him he’s restrained, “I’ll deal with him, Connor. This should never have been your problem.” Markus turns to Henry with a small bow, “My apologies, Lord Anderson, for the perceived threats against your son.”

Any lord in his position would normally rankle at such a paltry apology, but Markus’ use of _son_ plasters a ridiculous grin across his face. He can’t quite find it in his heart to even pretend to still be upset.

By the time they make it to the ship, Henry’s legs feel unsteady as he descends the steps into the darkened Captain’s quarters. Weary to the bone and made largely of jelly, Henry flops with a pleased groan onto a familiar bed. He can’t deny the island has its charms, not when he’s still trying to piece himself back together from a shattering release, but there is something to be said for sleeping in a comfortable bed.

When Connor crawls in beside him, Henry knows it will be a matter of seconds before he’s enveloped in a cocoon of limbs. Once Connor’s finished with his covetous squid routine, Henry mutters into his hair, “I should compare you to vegetables more often.”

Connor huffs out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl, “Proceed at your own risk, my Lord.”

Henry rolls and Connor squawks as much of Henry’s bulk pins him in place. Henry grins at Connor’s flailing, “I’ll take my chances.” With a kiss to the forehead that is more a brush than a press of lips, Henry moves back to his two-thirds of the bed as Connor sprawls across him once more.

 _I love you_. Henry replays the soft confession in his mind like a serenade until the first tendrils of sleep send his thoughts spiraling. He isn’t ready to let the words out of his chest yet, but his heart hums in their embrace. Soon; he will tell Connor soon.

The trip back to Detroit isn’t a long one and they’ve been gone for less than a handful of days. Even so, Henry’s absence is not likely to go unnoticed. There’s much to discuss between them still, and they will. There’re more than a dozen headaches to sort out, and they’ll tackle them together. Henry doesn’t intend to carry on the charade that Connor’s presence is merely to serve an advisory role.  

He knows Connor will have thoughts on the matter. The Queen of Wellington is almost certain to send her opinions as fast as her ships can manage once word reaches her. Even so, it’s the public’s reaction they’ll have to manage. One way or the other, Henry is sure of one thing—now that he’s certain of Connor’s intentions, he’s not letting him go.

## Epilogue - ∞

Connor flops with ill-disguised annoyance onto the plush blankets of their shared bed. It had been a massive effort to get the people of Detroit to accept Connor beyond his advisory role. The first time Henry had stepped out as Lord Anderson with Connor on his arm, the scandal had been immediate and vicious. Even with Amanda’s support and Connor’s title as a prince, there was only so much the kingdom of Wellington could offer from across the sea.

Connor won the hearts of the people the day he saved Cole from a runaway horse down the main stretch of town. Henry was almost 100 percent certain that the two of them had staged the entire thing. Cole was more than adept in the saddle and there was no reason whatsoever for the two of them to be horseback riding during the busiest hour of the weekend market.

Even so, Henry wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The people loved Cole almost as much as they loved to tell the story of how Henry took him in after rescuing him from vicious pirates. The fact that one of said _vicious pirates_ slept in Henry’s bed wasn’t something the townsfolk needed to know. Regardless, their steadfastness against Connor thawed even if outright acceptance was likely far off in the future.

“Something the matter, darling?” Henry chuckles in amusement as Connor’s huffing. “Someone throw a cabbage at you?”

Connor scowls before chucking a pillow at Henry’s head, “That happened the _one_ time.”

Henry rises to put the ill-aimed pillow back on the bed. Running his finger down the tip of Connor’s nose, he quips, “And it is one of my fondest memories.” Before Connor can summon up righteous indignation, Henry drops heavily on the bed beside him, forcing Connor to roll closer to his denser weight. Connor’s glower diminishes slightly when Henry presses a kiss to his forehead.

“It’s nothing like that. I’ve misplaced…something.” Henry hears the elusive tone and his interest piques.

“Something?” He tries to ask innocently.

“Something personal,” is all Connor offers up in explanation.

“Con,” Henry murmurs sympathetically into the space just under Connor’s ear, nuzzling at his neck, “I can’t help you find it if you don’t tell me what it is.”

Connor shoves at him playfully, “I’m not sure what you’re looking for my Lord, but—”

“Trouble,” Henry growls into his ear and Connor’s dour mood vanishes with comical speed. A pushy Henry was always worth indulging in his experience.

“Henry, it’s two in the afternoon,” Connor attempts to be reasonable. After all, Cole could be roaming nearby.

Henry’s interest in being reasonable hovers somewhere around zero, “And?” When Connor gives him an exasperated look touched with fondness, Henry murmurs, “Ben’s taken Cole riding. We have the run of the place.” Connor isn’t a man who needs to be told twice.

Watching Henry take what he’s given is always an intoxicating sight and Connor makes the most of their unexpected privacy. He knows where to prod, how firmly to grip, to make Henry buckle, groan, or mewl depending on the desired effect. Connor even manages to pull an overwrought shout from him on a particularly sharp thrust. One knee tucked against the swell of Henry’s buttock on the bed and the other leg braced on the floor, he had the leverage to go harder than they usually dared.

Eventually, the wet, filthy sounds of frantic plunging and skin slapping against skin fade into murmurs of affection and heavy panting. By the time Connor’s convinced himself to roll off Henry and clean up, he’s forgotten his earlier irritation.

“So, are you going to tell me?” Henry calls across the room, sprawling comfortably over most of the bed. His spent erection wilts across his thigh, still impressive even when soft.

“What?” Connor’s eyebrows quirk, trying to straighten his sex-mussed thoughts.

Henry stretches and Connor watches the generous spread of his chest as he answers, “Whatever it is you’ve misplaced.”

“Oh,” Connor huffs, less annoyed than before, “that. It’s nothing, really. I can’t find my old captain’s log. It’s the only thing I have left to remember my time on _The Jericho_ , you know?”

Henry’s steady gaze meets Connor’s as he answers, “That’s not entirely true.” Flexing his fingers in Connor’s direction, Connor slides into bed beside him, pressing his nude form against Henry’s generous hip.

“It’s not?” Connor murmurs sleepily into Henry’s shoulder. It may be late afternoon, but a nap sounds lovely at that moment.

Henry pulls Connor’s arm more firmly across his chest before he says quietly, “You have me. You’ll always have me.”

Connor noses at Henry’s hair, a gentle flush brushed across his cheeks, “You’re unbearably soft sometimes.” He tightens his arms a fraction in a brief squeeze. Henry makes a noncommittal sound before murmuring _you make it easy to love you_ before taking advantage of the rare afternoon nap.

When he wakes, the sun is glaring at him from over the neighboring rooftops. He estimates only an hour’s passed, but sleep appears to be done with him for now. Inching out from under Connor’s arm, he smiles softly when Connor paws around for him and snatches at a nearby pillow instead.

As if delivered to him in a dream, Henry has a fairly good idea where Connor’s log may be. After Connor’s brother departed, Ben had taken it upon himself to clear out the guest room, and his cleaning had gotten a little overzealous, to say the least. Henry’s office fell across Ben’s cleaning warpath as had Connor’s rooms before Henry could reign in Ben’s tidying rampage.

Most of what Ben had cleared out of Richard’s room was scrap parchment, notes that proved futile relating to Leo’s transcribed letters, and one delicately folded paper crane. Cole had rescued it and ferreted it away along with several other items that struck his fancy into a trunk at the foot of his bed.

Peering into Cole’s empty room, he tries to ignore the pang of treachery as he peeks through Cole’s collection of things. The chest is mostly full of items that would only interest a young boy—battered practice swords, a sack of cloudy marbles, a bag of jacks—but a battered, leather-bound book catches his eye.

He knows immediately what had interested Cole about it. The delicate knots binding it closed would have proven an inescapable lure to a young, inquisitive mind. Henry snorts in amusement as he imagines Cole’s frustration trying to pick at the endless knots wrapped around the thing. His grin deepens when he sees Cole fell for the obvious trap. Rather than working from the exterior-most knot, he’d tugged at a loose end that gave way easily. However, in undoing it, he’d made a mess of the interior knots, pulling them tighter in the process.

It was a simple locking system—one that almost any adult could puzzle through given enough time—and Connor clearly meant for it to be perfunctory. The message was clear (Keep Out), but Connor hadn’t gone to great pains to protect the contents. Pocketing the book, Henry closes the trunk and makes his way to his office.

Settling behind the cream-colored desk with hints of the true wood peeking out along its sharp edges, Henry settles a pair of glasses on the end of his nose. Untying the knots that had flummoxed Cole, Henry’s unsurprised to find basic entries about the crew, cargo, and deliveries. A few personal entries decorate the journal every few pages.  

It takes him a minute to untangle the code Connor uses, but it’s not too different from the one he’d taught him to decipher Leo’s messages. He finds an entry about a lady named Chloe, disguised as Demeter in the log written out in Greek as χλόη. After a few lines, it becomes clear that this is the woman Connor reunited with Lord Simon’s wife. Skipping ahead several pages, he finds a manifest taking on _emergency coal_ despite being in the dead of summer. _Cole_ , he thinks to himself.

Henry’s heart picks up speed as his subconscious realizes what his waking mind is not yet ready to read:

_Received word from Z. Lord to arrive at docks on the morrow. Need to make it convincing._

Henry’s eyes freeze on the Z as Zlatko’s name whispers around him in the room. His eyes jerk across the entry, trying to absorb the information that Connor had written about him ahead of his captivity.

It is ridiculous how shook he feels at the realization. Of course, Connor had written about him. Even so, his idle curiosity about Connor’s log grows heavier in anticipation as he leafs through the pages with delicate care.

He finds the date he’s looking for within a few pages, surprised that it hasn’t quite been a year since Connor first took him captive under false pretenses. He smiles as he reads the entry. It’s only five words:

_Damn it all to hell._

The next entry is only three:

_This is unfair._

Connor appeared to have come to terms with his feelings by Henry’s third day of captivity:

_The Lord should simply not be allowed. It is not my fault he looks the way he does._

Henry’s hesitation at perusing Connor’s initial opinions about him gives way to amusement the longer he reads. Seeing the thoughts behind his pushy, often-overwhelming attention softened some of Connor’s more severe personality traits while as his captive.

Henry nearly drops the book at the gentle clearing of a throat, “Found some light reading did you?” Connor pads into the room with bare feet, his cheeks a touch pink but his eyes otherwise amused, “Where did you find it?”

“Cole,” Henry says quietly, his eyes scanning Connor’s face for any signs of irritation. “My best guess is he liberated it from Ben’s cleaning frenzy.”

“Ah,” Connor hums lightly, plucking the book from Henry’s hands by the spine. He flips through the salt-crinkled pages rapidly before coming to an abrupt stop on a heavily dog-eared page.

His lips curve into a sensual smile, “If you’re going to read what amounts to my diary—” He breaks off to hold the book out to Henry in a facsimile of innocence, “you may as well read the best parts.”

Henry scans the first few lines curiously before a cabernet-like blush fills his cheeks. The further he reads, the more it threatens to overflow into his hairline.

“You are incorrigible,” Henry grumbles, attempting to cover his slightly pleased embarrassment with brusqueness.

Connor ruins his efforts by tilting Henry’s face to meet his gaze, “And you love it.” Henry sees the warmth kindle in Connor’s gaze and he tosses the book at him. As Much as Connor may like the idea, Henry doesn’t think he would survive Connor blowing his back out twice in one day. Connor catches the logbook with a laugh before settling down into a plush midnight blue armchair to read over favorite passages. 

He sits in a chaotic perch with one leg dangling over the armrest and the other tucked beneath his thigh. A loud crash followed by a put upon sigh heralds Cole’s return from the market with Ben. Henry smiles, knowing the fragile window of quiet privacy they’d enjoyed had just drawn its curtain. Still, Cole’s laughter fills the halls and their hearts more often than not.

There would be other times, of course. Whispers beneath blankets and moans pressed into fists. Long kisses under starlight and warm baths drawn at the end of longer days. It isn’t the sort of domestic life Henry expected with a pirate, but it’s a better family than he could have ever dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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